Of Mrs. Hayward I can never say enough, for she was to me in all things a tender mother and loving friend. Of her virtues there was no end, and of these not the least were her gentle womanly ways. In the rude hut where she lived she was yet a queen, and this by right of her grace and the sweet serenity of her nature. Beautiful, the meed of admiration was hers, albeit her only mirror was the placid waters of the great river. Educated, who could deny her admiration, though her only book was her Bible? For such deprivations are ever the distress of poverty and life in a new country. Full of the buoyancy and joy of living, the fragrance of her presence was a benediction, lifting all about her into a world of virtue and peace. Of loving and pure mind, the scandal and distraught of life passed her by, leaving no taint of evil or cloud in her trustful heart. Exalted above men by right of her inability to do wrong, she yet believed in their goodness as she did in the goodness of God. Such was the dear lady with whom I now came to live, and who gave each day some portion of her time to the betterment of my head and heart. Thus instructed, I spent several years of my life, and to my great advantage then and now. Of Mr. Hayward, what shall I say that you may see him as I do, looking back, and not too clearly, through the fast-gathering years of a long life? A man of talent and ambition, and every way kindly, he yet lost something each day in comparison with her. This not strange, for the pliant reed, bending before the sweeping torrent, recovers its poise unhurt, while the stouter plant, struggling against the swift-running stream, is uprooted or broken in the effort. Amid the rude surroundings in which he sought preferment, and where none might wholly succeed, every encounter left some dent or disfiguring scar. The struggle and its hopelessness seamed his face and clouded his brow, despite his courage, so that all too soon he lost the glow and ambient fire of his youthful days. Diversion would have prevented this, and preserved till death impulses that lost in warmth for lack of nourishment; but this, unhappily, is ever the misfortune of obscure or lonely life. For of vices he had not one, save a too great ambition to get on in the narrow world in which he lived. Amid great surroundings he would have been great. As it was, striving to accomplish much with little, not one of his ventures enriched him, while many failed altogether. Unconquerable, however, he struggled on undismayed, as such men will, to the very end. This, sorrow over it as we may, is, unhappily, ever the beginnings of men as it is of the affairs with which they deal.