Ten years ago his wife was left a widow, with scanty means and a couple of growing boys.
She paid her husband's debts as best she could, and came to establish herself here, where by the death of a charitable relative she had inherited an old-fashioned ruinous house.

Roderick, our friend, was her pride and joy, but Stephen, the elder, was her comfort and support.
I remember him, later; he was an ugly, sturdy, practical lad, very different from his brother, and in his way, I imagine, a very fine fellow.

When the war broke out he found that the New England blood ran thicker in his veins than the Virginian, and immediately obtained a commission.

He fell in some Western battle and left his mother inconsolable.

Roderick, however, has given her plenty to think about, and she has induced him, by some mysterious art, to abide, nominally at least, in a profession that he abhors, and for which he is about as fit, I should say, as I am to drive a locomotive.