. . . . . . It was two years from the time I left America that I returned to Boston. I was walking in a hurried manner up one of its streets, when I met my brother-in-law. He could not speak or move, but he grasped my hand, and the tears flowed from his eyes. “Is my wife alive?” I asked. He said nothing. Then I wished that I had perished with my ship, for I thought my wife was dead, but he very soon said, “She is alive!” Then it was my turn to cry for joy. He embraced me, and said, “Your funeral service has been preached, for we have thought you dead for a long time.” He said that my wife was living in our little cottage in the middle of Massachusetts. It was then three o’clock in the afternoon, and I took a train that would carry me to within twenty-five miles of my bride. Upon leaving the train, I hired a boy, though it was night, to drive me home. It was about two o’clock in the morning when that sweet little cottage appeared in sight. I got out of the carriage, and went to the window of the room where the servant girl slept, and I gently knocked. She opened her window and asked who was there . . . . . .