He grew morose and melancholy, even wicked, for at times he blamed Providence, first for casting him away on this lonely island, and lastly for taking from him the companion he had failed to appreciate, until he felt her loss; but soon he turned to God and prayed for light.
He read the Bible and from this living fountain of consolation drank deep draughts of that which, to his starving soul, was the elixir of life.

Strange as it may seem, in the first ebullition of his grief, John Stevens seemed to forget his wife and children.

So long had he been from them, that they had lost their place in his thoughts.

Time, the great healer of all wounds, the great reconciler to all fates, the great arbitrator of all disputes, had almost lost to him those tenderest ties which had lacerated his poor heart.
To the fatalist, John Stevens would seem to be one of those unfortunate beings doomed to be made the sport of a capricious fortune.

His domestic relations in Virginia were a strange intermixture of good and bad.