PHOEBE GOULD, his wife, was possessed of considerable intelligence and evinced a fondness for learning. Deeply pious, her mind was well stored with Bible truths and with choice hymns. She manifested a fondness for children, and could repeat from memory to their delight many long stories in verse; and she never failed to leave upon them an impression for good. She seemed to live in a very holy frame, and did not fail to bless all who came near her. Benjamin Gould, the father of Rebecca Steward, passed away on the 18th of May 1851, and twenty-six years after on the same day of the month and at the same hour in the day, viz., May 18th 1877, Phoebe Gould, the mother, followed him to that better land. The heads of the family are gone over, and one by one the children who have walked in the footsteps of their parents are being gathered home after them. The latest grave is that which contains the precious dust of REBECCA STEWARD, fifth daughter of Benjamin and Phoebe Gould. CHAPTER II. BIRTH, HOME, MARRIAGE, CONVERSION. Rebecca Gould, afterwards Rebecca Steward, was born in Gouldtown on the 2d of May, 1820. But Gouldtown a half century ago was not what it is now. It was then almost unbroken forest. The early childhood of this family was passed in a rude little log house, in which one room answered for kitchen, dining-room, parlor and bed-room for eleven souls. A brave and stalwart father, a slight and sickly mother, seven girls, and two boys, made up that household. A little uncomfortable school house, answering on the Sabbath for church, was the only public building known. In such circumstances, grew up this family; the children early learning to work in the fields and in the woods, girls and boys, very much alike, getting now and then a few months in school, and working occasionally in other families. Thus they learned quite early the stern realities of life. This home, though rude, was the abode of good cheer, in which the wayworn traveler and especially the minister of the gospel, always found a welcome. Let me picture it as it lives in my earliest recollections. The log-house had then given way to one of frame scarcely larger, and this was old. The heavy oaken door painted red swung lazily on its hinges, and the leather latch string answered for a knob. In one corner of the room stood an ancient corner cupboard, with its glass doors and abundant carvings; in another the old clock, with its two brothers clasped in affectionate embrace on its front; the fire place and the innovation of a ten plate stove, occupied one side of the room; while opposite, stood the old table, with its legs terminating in dragon's feet, from which I have crept away in terror many times, imagining that the cloth concealed some hideous beast. A long settee and a few rush bottom chairs completed the furniture.