Chapter 1. In A Lonely Cabin
_ CHAPTER I. IN A LONELY CABIN
On the edge of a prairie, in western Iowa, thirty years ago, stood a cabin, covering quite a little ground, but only one story high. It was humble enough, but not more so than the early homes of some who have become great.
The furniture was limited to articles of prime necessity. There was a stove, a table, three chairs, a row of shelves containing a few articles of crockery and tinware, and a bed in the far corner of the room, on which rested a man with ragged gray beard and hair, a face long and thin, and coal-black eyes.
It was evident he was sick unto death. His parchment-colored skin was wrinkled； from time to time he coughed so violently as to rack his slight frame, and his hand, thin and wrinkled, as it rested on the quilt that covered him, shook as with palsy.
It was hard to tell how old the man was. He looked over seventy, but there were indications that he had aged prematurely.
There was one other per

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