"Dearest ones," he said, "I am singularly sad at heart, this morning; but do not let this depress you. The journey is a perilous one, but--pshaw! I have always come back safely heretofore, and why should I fear? Besides, I know that every night, as I lay down on the broad starlit prairie, your bright faces will come to me in my dreams, and make my slumbers sweet and gentle. You, Emily, with your mild blue eyes; and you, Henrietta, with your splendid black hair; and you, Nelly, with your hair so brightly, beautifully golden; and you, Mollie, with your cheeks so downy; and you, Betsy, with your wine-red lips-- far more delicious, though, than any wine I ever tasted--and you, Maria, with your winsome voice; and you, Susan, with your--with your--that is to say, Susan, with your--and the other thirteen of you, each so good and beautiful, will come to me in sweet dreams, will you not, Dearestists?" "Our own," they lovingly chimed, "we will!" "And so farewell!" said Reginald. "Come to my arms, my own!" he cried, "that is, as many of you as can do it conveniently at once, for I must away." He folded several of them to his throbbing breast, and drove sadly away. . . . . But he had not gone far when the trace of the off-hind mule became unhitched. Dismounting, he essayed to adjust the trace; but ere he had fairly commenced the task, the mule, a singularly refractory animal--snorted wildly, and kicked Reginald frightfully in the stomach. He arose with difficulty, and tottered feebly towards his mother's house, which was near by, falling dead in her yard, with the remark, "Dear Mother, I've come home to die!" "So I see," she said; "where's the mules?" Alas! Reginald Gloverson could give no answer. In vain the heart-stricken mother threw herself upon his inanimate form, crying, "Oh, my son--my son! Only tell me where the mules are, and then you may die if you want to." In vain--in vain! Reginald had passed on. CHAPTER II.--FUNERAL TRAPPINGS. The mules were never found. Reginald's heart-broken mother took the body home to her unfortunate son's widows. But before her arrival she indiscreetly sent a boy to Bust the news gently to the afflicted wives, which he did by informing them in a hoarse whisper that their "old man had gone in." The wives felt very badly indeed. "He was devoted to me," sobbed Emily. "And to me," said Maria. "Yes," said Emily, "he thought considerably of you, but not so much as he did of me." "I say he did!" "And I say he didn't!" "He did!" "He didn't!" "Don't look at ME, with your squint eyes!" "Don't shake your red head at ME!" "Sisters!" said the black-haired Henrietta, "cease this unseemly wrangling. I, as his first wife, shall strew flowers on his grave." "No you WON'T," said Susan. "I, as his last wife, shall strew flowers on his grave. It's MY business to strew!" "You shan't, so there!" said Henrietta.