Owen stood for a moment, and, looking solemnly in his neighbor’s face, exclaimed, in a deep and exhausted voice, “Frank!”

“What are you goin’ to say, Owen?”

“The heart widin me’s broke—­broke!”

The large tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks, and he proceeded in silence to the house of his friend.  There was, however, a feeling of sorrow in his words and manner which Frank could not withstand.  He grasped Owen’s hand, and, in a low and broken voice, simply said—­“Keep your spirits up—­keep them up.”

When they came to the barn in which his helpless family had taken up their temporary residence, Owen stood for a moment to collect himself; but he was nervous, and trembled with repressed emotion.  They then entered; and Kathleen, on seeing her beloved and affectionate husband, threw herself on his bosom, and for some time felt neither joy nor sorrow—­she had swooned.  The poor man embraced her with a tenderness at once mournful and deep.  The children, on seeing their father safely returned, forgot their recent grief, and clung about him with gladness and delight.  In the meantime Kathleen recovered, and Owen for many minutes could not check the loud and clamorous grief, now revived by the presence of her husband, with which the heart-broken and emaciated mother deplored her departed child; and Owen himself, on once more looking among the little ones, on seeing her little frock hanging up, and her stool vacant by the fire—­on missing her voice and her blue laughing eyes—­and remembering the affectionate manner in which, as with a presentiment of death, she held up her little mouth and offered him the last kiss—­he slowly pulled the toys and cakes he had purchased for her out of his pocket, surveyed them for a moment, and then, putting his hands on his face, bent his head upon his bosom, and wept with the vehement outpouring of a father’s sorrow.

The reader perceives that he was a meek man; that his passions were not dark nor violent; he bore no revenge to those who neglected or injured him, and in this he differed from too many of his countrymen.  No; his spirit was broken down with sorrow, and had not room for the fiercer and more destructive passions.  His case excited general pity.  Whatever his neighbors could, do to soothe him and alleviate his affliction was done.  His farm was not taken; for fearful threats were held out against those who might venture to occupy it.  In these threats he had nothing to do; on the contrary, he strongly deprecated them.  Their existence, however, was deemed by the Agent sufficient to justify him in his callous and malignant severity towards him.