On my arrival at my father-in-law’s house, I found that the information I had accidentally heard was unfortunately a sad reality. My brother-in-law had not left Darlington an hour on his journey to Otonabee before my wife breathed her last. I had not even the consolation of bidding her a last adieu. Few can comprehend my feelings on this trying occasion, except those who have suffered under a similar bereavement. I was not yet twenty-one years of age. I was in a strange country—the tie severed between me and my only friends in a manner so afflicting and melancholy—all my hopes and future prospects in life dashed, as it were, to the ground. I had expended all my little capital in providing a comfortable home for her, who, alas! was doomed never to behold it; and I had a little son to bring up without the aid of my poor Emma, whose piety and sweet temper would have been so invaluable to our child. A nurse was obtained for my poor motherless babe, the babe over whom I shed so many tears—a sad welcome, this, to as fine a boy as ever a father’s eye looked upon! I followed the remains of my beloved wife to the grave; and then tarried for a month in that house of sorrow. My only consolation was derived from my knowledge that Emma loved her Saviour, and put her trust in him while passing through the valley of the shadow of death. “How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence; Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping. A solemn joy comes o’er me, and a sense Of triumph blent with nature’s gush of weeping.” I left my little son in the care of his Irish nurse, and quitted my friend’s house, with a heavy heart, for my new settlement at Otonabee. CHAPTER IX. RETURN TO OTONABEE.—BENEVOLENCE OF MY NEIGHBOUR.—SERIOUS ACCIDENT TO A SETTLER.—HIS SINGULAR MISFORTUNES.—PARTICULARS OF HIS LIFE. I returned in sadness to my lonely and desolate home, feeling like a shipwrecked mariner, cast upon a desert shore. In fact, I had to begin life again, without the stimulus of domestic love to quicken my exertions. I had left my land unsown, and therefore the prospect of a crop of wheat for the next year’s harvest was, I felt assured, entirely gone. Upon reaching my clearing, I was surprised to find my fallow not only sown but showing the green blade, for some friendly hands had been at work for me in my absence, that pecuniary losses might not be added to my heavy domestic bereavement. On inquiry, I found I was indebted to the considerate kindness of my excellent neighbour Mr. Reid and his sons, for this act of Christian benevolence. I hurried to his house to thank him for the important service he had rendered one, to whom he was almost a stranger. He considered, however, that he had done nothing more than a neighbourly duty, and insisted that I should take up my abode with him, instead of returning to my unfinished and melancholy home.