The joy in the faces of the family gradually gave way to anxious looks, and we had but little pleasant talk, evenings. Things only grew worse as time went on. The spring opened gloomily. We had day after day of brilliant sunshine, clamor of warbling birds, balmy, healing, vivifying atmosphere—there was everything to make us dismal, heart-sick, hopeless. The spring dragged its disastrous length along and left a memorable record behind it—three months and a half with scarcely a demise.

We got ready for the summer trade. There came news that the cholera had appeared in the seaports, and for the first time in months we had an old-time evening of innocent gaiety in place of bowed heads and heavy sighs. The disease spread from village to village, till it reached within five miles of us—then it split apart and wandered far away on either side, leaving our town untouched!

“It is very hard,” said Mr. Cadaver, and we saw the tears trickle through his fingers as he sat with his hands clasped over his face, rocking to and fro and softly moaning.

Once it had been our happiness on peaceful Sabbath afternoons, to stroll to Joseph’s graveyard and count the new mounds and talk of the prospects. But this had long ceased. There were no new mounds any more; the turf had grown old upon all; there was no longer anything about the graveyard that could cheer our hearts, but much to sadden them.

There came a time, at last, when we all realized that imminent disaster was hovering over us. Nothing had been paid on the graveyard and the six hundred dollars would soon fall due. Old Marlow got to haunting the place with his evil eye. He would intrude in the most unexpected way and remind Mr. Cadaver to get ready to move out of the house if the money was not forthcoming on the appointed day.

How the days flew! Once Mr. Cadaver appealed to him for a little time.

“Time!” cried old Marlow. “What on!”

“My business, Mr. Marlow.”

“Business! Tush! You have none. What are your assets? Come—show them up, man.”

Mr. Cadaver showed him his list of coffins and other stock, and also a list of neighbors who were very low. These latter Mr. Marlow derided—laughed over the list brutally. Said he—

“You call these people assets? There ain’t one in the lot but will outlast this generation!”

“But sir, the doctor said this morning that old Mrs. Hale and Mr. Samson—”

“Bother what the doctor said! Mrs. Hale has been dying for ten years, and old Samson for fifteen. Call such stock as that, assets! The idea!”

“I have heard that George Simpson had a very bad night last night, and there is every hope—I mean every prospect that he—”

“Drop your hopes of George Simpson, my friend. He sat up in bed this morning and ate a fricasseed chicken.”

Mr. Cadaver murmured with a sigh, “This is indeed an unexpected blow.” He tried once more to throw a favorable aspect upon some of his assets, but Marlow scouted every name and said there was neither man, woman nor child in the list but would get well. He finally said:

“Hark ye! You have neglected your business till ruin stares you in the face and it serves you right.”

“I, sir? I cannot bury people if they will not die. Please have pity—think of my poor family—do not be hard with me, Mr.