On her return, mother found me with Mrs. Elsie Thomas, where I had
lived during her absence, still sewing for a livelihood. Those were
the days in which sewing machines were unknown, and no stitching or
sewing of any description was allowed to pass muster, unless each
stitch looked as if it were a part of the cloth. The art of fine
sewing was lost when sewing machines were invented, and though
doubtless they have given women more leisure, they have destroyed that
extreme neatness in the craft, which obtained in the days of long ago.

Time passed happily on with us, with no event to ruffle life's
peaceful stream, until 1845, when I met Frederick Turner, and in a few
short months we were made man and wife. After our marriage, we removed
to Quincy, Ill., but our happiness was of short duration, as my
husband was killed in the explosion of the steamboat Edward Bates, on
which he was employed. To my mind it seemed a singular coincidence
that the boat which bore the name of the great and good man, who had
given me the first joy of my meagre life--the precious boon of
freedom--and that his namesake should be the means of weighting me
with my first great sorrow; this thought seemed to reconcile me to my
grief, for that name was ever sacred, and I could not speak it
without reverence.

The number of killed and wounded were many, and they were distributed
among friends and hospitals; my husband was carried to a friend's,
where he breathed his last. Telegraphs were wanting in those times, so
days passed before this wretched piece of news reached me, and there
being no railroads, and many delays, I reached the home of my friend
only to be told that my husband was dead and buried. Intense grief was
mine, and my repining worried mother greatly; she never believed in