CHAPTER I.


THAT STRANGE LETTER.

It was in the latter part of the eighteenth century. The dwelling was a
plain frame structure, spacious, and of the style of that day (the second
story projecting a few inches beyond the first), and was kept painted as
white as snow. It stood in the south suburb of the then little city of
Middletown, Conn., between two hills on the right bank of the Connecticut
River, at the bend called "the Cove." The first break in the happy family
circle was made by the departure of a daughter to another State to engage
in teaching. Few letters were written in those days, and the postal service
was a slow and small concern. But this absent school-teacher had written
with much care and vivacity to the dear circle at home as regularly as the
months came around. But now, for long, anxious weeks, no tidings from the
absent one had reached that saddened home at the Cove. "Why don't we get
a letter from Betsey?" was often asked by the fond parents, the loving
sisters, and thoughtful little brothers; but no satisfactory answer could
be given.

The father would hasten to the city as often as "mail day" returned and
watch for the ponderous stagecoach, but come back more moderately, with a
shadow upon his countenance, and "No letter!" "No letter!" would deepen the
sorrow of the circle. One day the son "Siah" was sent, and in an unusually
short time was seen coming over the hill with a speed so unlike a