Mr. Savage thanked him for the communication he had made, as it would, he said, in a great measure, relieve that distressing feeling of suspense which his friends had so long endured on account of this absent one.

As soon as an opportunity presented, the young man wrote to his mother, and acquainted her with what he had so providentially heard, respecting Simon. This lady grieved at the intelligence he communicated; yet, as she affirmed with feeling, it was less distressing to know, or to have reason to believe that her son was dead, than to be tortured with suspense in regard to his condition.

Ever after receiving the letter containing this account, she regarded Simon as buried forever from her sight, and felt free from any apprehension on account of his suffering in some far-off region from his friends.

Not long after these occurrences, the son of Mrs. Nelson returned to the home of his mother. He related an incident that occurred while he was absent, which led both himself and mother to suspect that Benjamin was living, in the southern part of this country.

A gentleman had lately removed from an unknown region to a situation near the eastern margin of the Mississippi. No one was acquainted with him, or could conjecture where he had formerly belonged.

As young Mr. Savage was one day near the place of the stranger's residence, this gentleman was pointed out to him, when in a moment he was sure he recognized the well-remembered features of his brother Benjamin. He did not mention this truth to any one, but secretly resolved to call upon him, privately, as he lived in retirement, and learn his name.

The next day he executed this resolve, and obtained the desired interview. It was, however, unsatisfactory to Mr. Savage, for the stranger called himself by a name unknown to the family of Mrs. Nelson; besides, he was unwilling to communicate the name of any of his friends; but it was evident to the young man, that whoever this individual might be, he had assumed a false name.

Every question Mr. Savage ventured to ask, concerning his family, was answered evasively; and he avoided looking the young man full in the face. Mr. Savage attentively regarded the expression of the countenance of the strange gentleman, and saw it was painful. After sitting long enough to feel convinced that he should gain no more by remaining longer, he rose to depart.

As he was leaving the house, he said to the gentleman, When I saw you yesterday, I thought you must be my brother, you resemble him so strongly; but you say your name is not Benjamin. By this time they had reached the door and opened it, when, without giving his visitor an opportunity to finish the sentence he had begun to utter, with manifest emotion he bade him adieu, and turned from him.

Mr. Savage did not relate this circumstance to any one except his own family; but they conjectured that Benja min must have been driven, by something of an unpleasant nature, to resort to this mysterious manner of living, and gladly would have forgotten this painful occurrence, could they have done so.

Mrs. Nelson grieved for her absent Benjamin, during the remainder of her life; but no other tidings concerning him ever reached his friends. It was always believed by

the family, that the strange gentleman at the South was their relative, and they took a lively interest in his welfare; but he never would have any communication with any one connected with the family, after the occurrence of the interview we have mentioned.

Mrs. Nelson lived some years after this, and it was emphatically true of her, that her last days were her best days; for she was permitted to enjoy that peace which alone flows from a confident trust in our Heavenly Father. She thanked him for all the trials she had endured, as she approached the close of her earthly pilgrimage, often remarking, with a feeling of gratitude, 'I could never have been prepared for heaven without affliction: God knew what was best for me.' She closed her eyes forever upon sublunary objects, with a bright hope of future blessedness beyond the grave.

Mrs. Coleman survived her sister a few years, and to the end of life continued to be a means of good to all who came within the sphere of her influence.

Little, worthy of particular notice, occurred in the history of her children, their lives being spent usefully and tranquilly. Like the family of Mrs. Howe, they did much for the good of their fellow-beings, and left a good name behind them, which, as the wise man has said, is better than precious ointment.'

The reader will now take leave of these members of the family, in which many traits of character have already been delineated, and become acquainted with some circumstances immediately connected with the history of others belonging to the same family. One of the parties was a sister of the persons, to whom we have just bid adieu.

Mrs. Dalby, little of whose early history is known to the writer, was settled at the time of her marriage, near the town of Brookfield, the native place of Mr. Weldron and his family. There was nothing strikingly noticeable known of her or her household, except the fact that their children, and they had several, all died while they were young.

This was a severe affliction to these fond parents; and ever after the death of the second child, Mrs. Dalby was strongly disposed to indulge a melancholy temper of mind. After the birth of the fifth, which was a daughter, she was encouraged to hope it might be spared to her inaternal affection, and felt cheered by the thought. The babe was entrusted to a faithful nurse, who kept it most of the time in an apartment separate from the room its mother occupied.

Just about the time these events took place, a female called one evening at the house, and asked permission to spend the night. Her countenance was pale, and she had in her arms a very young babe.

Mr. Dalby was sure that it would be the wish of his wife to have her remain, and bade her welcome to stop during the night. When she took off her bonnet, he was shocked at her feeble appearance.

'How old is your babe?' inquired Mr. D.

'It is only a week old,' answered the young and feeble mother, and then burst into tears.

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'Only one week old,' repeated Mr. Dalby, and yoù a traveller too?'

It is true,' replied the other, but I am a most unfortunate individual.'

'Have you parents?' asked the gentleman.

'No,' responded the weeping girl, I am an orphan. I have not for many years known what it was to enjoy the confidence and affection of such dear, dear friends.'

Mr. Dalby forbore to say any more to the distressed young creature at that time, but immediately requested a lady who had long been an inmate of his family, to conduct her to a comfortable room, where she might lie down immediately, as her weakness, he thought, was too great to admit of her sitting up longer without injury.

He requested the lady, and other members of the family, to forbear mentioning the arrival of their strange guest to his wife for a time, lest her sympathy for the poor girl should produce too great an excitement of mind to be borne, in her feeble state. The family agreed to comply with his wishes; and the lady referred to went directly to the room where the young female was sitting, to follow the suggestion of Mr. Dalby respecting her.

On entering the room, this lady was struck with the interesting, yet pallid countenance of the young stranger. After accosting her in a kind manner, she took the babe in her arms, and bade its mother follow her. She led her to a warm apartment, (for the weather at that time was quite cold, being November,) and assisted her to retire to bed with her child, after which she carried her some refreshment, which was most grateful to this lonely one.

The feelings of the lady were much interested in behalf of the stranger. After leaving her room, she remarked to Mr. Dalby, that she believed he never would regret having befriended this poor child of sorrow.

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'I believe,' said Mr. Dalby, that no one ever has cause