In the autumn of 1824,--the minister of Ashfield being still in good favor with nearly all his parishioners, and his wife Rachel being still greatly beloved,--a rumor ran through the town, one day, that there was serious illness at the parsonage, the Doctor's horse and saddle-bags being observed in waiting at the front gate for two hours together. Following close upon this, the Tew partners reported--having received undoubted information from Larkin, who still kept in his old service--that a daughter was born to the minister, but so feeble that there were grave doubts if the young Rachel could survive. The report was well founded; and after three or four days of desperate struggle with life, the poor child dropped away. Thus death came into the parsonage with so faint and shadowy a tread, it hardly startled one. The babe had been christened in the midst of its short struggle, and in this the father found such comfort as he could; yet reckoning the poor, fluttering little soul as a sinner in Adam, through whom all men fell, he confided it with a great sigh to God. It would have been well, if his grief had rested there. But two days thereafter there was a rumor on the village street,--flying like the wind, as such rumors do, from house to house,--"The minister's wife is dead!" "I want to know!" said Mrs. Tew, lifting herself from her task of assorting the mail, and removing her spectacles in nervous haste. "Do tell! It a'n't possible! Miss Johns dead?" "Yes," says Larkin, "as true as I live, she's dead"; and his voice broke as he said it,--the kind little woman had so won upon him. Squire Elderkin, like a good Christian, came hurrying to the parsonage to know what this strange report could mean. The study was unoccupied. With the familiarity of an old friend he made his way up the cramped stairs. The chamber-door was flung wide open: there was no reason why the whole parish might not come in. The nurse, sobbing in a corner, was swaying back and forth, her hands folded across her lap. Reuben, clinging to the coverlet, was feeling his way along the bed, if by chance his mother's hand might catch hold upon his; and the minister standing with a chair before him, his eyes turned to heaven (the same calm attitude which he took at his evening prayer-meeting) was entreating God to "be over his house, to strengthen him, to pour down his Spirit on him, to bind up the bruised hearts,--to spare,--spare"---- Even the stout Squire Elderkin withdraws outside the door, that he may the better conceal his emotion. The death happened on a Friday. The Squire, after a few faltering expressions of sympathy, asked regarding the burial. "Should it not be on Sunday?" "Not on Sunday," says Mr. Johns; "God help me, Squire,--but this is not a work of necessity or mercy. Let it be on Monday." "On Monday, then," said Elderkin,--"and let me take the arrangement of it all off your thought; and we will provide some one to preach for you on the Sabbath."