Comstock, where I had experienced so much real comfort and happiness,
where I had ever been treated with uniform kindness, where resided those
kind friends to whom I felt under the greatest obligation for the freedom
and quietude I then enjoyed, as well as for the little knowledge of
business and of the world that I then possessed. Thinking, however, that
I could better my condition, I subdued, as well as I could, my rising
emotions, and after sincerely thanking them for their goodness and
favors--wishing them long life and prosperity,--I took my departure for
the chosen place of my destination.

Soon after I left Mr. Comstock's, that gentleman, sent his hired man,
named John Cline, to Rochester with a wagon load of produce to sell, as
had been his custom for some time. In vain the family looked for his
return at the usual hour in the evening, and began to wonder what had
detained him; but what was their horror and surprise to find, when they
arose the next morning, the horses standing at the door, and the poor
unfortunate man lying in the wagon, _dead_! How long they had been there
nobody knew; no one had heard them come in; and how the man had been
killed was a matter of mere conjecture. The coroner was sent for and an
inquest held, and yet it was difficult to solve the whole mystery.

The most probable explanation was, that he was sitting in the back part of
the wagon, and fell over on his left side, striking his neck on the edge
of the wagon box, breaking it instantly.

The verdict of the jury was, in accordance with these facts, "accidental
death," &c.

When I left Mr. Comstock's I had acquired quite a knowledge of reading,
writing, arithmetic, and had made a small beginning in English grammar.