squirrels on brush fences, of a broad,
blue river, and finally of a face, maternal and sweet, with brown eyes,
hovering over him watchfully and lovingly. He would think of the
earnest, thoughtful, bold upbringing of him, and his heart would go out
to the woman; but the tide of city affairs rose up and swept away the
vision. Still, he was a good son, as good sons at a distance go, and
occasionally wrote a letter to the woman growing older and older, or
sent her some trifle for remembrance. He was reasonably content with
himself.

Here comes another phase of description in this brief account of affairs
of the man who fell in love. One afternoon a woman sat in an arm-chair
on the long porch in front of what might have by some been called a
summer cottage, by others a farm-house, overlooking the St. Clair River.
The chair she sat in was of oak, with no arms, and tilted easily
backward, yet with no chance of tipping clear over. It must have cost
originally about four dollars. In its early days it had possessed a cane
back and cane bottom, through the round holes of which the little
children were accustomed to thrust their fingers, getting them caught
sometimes, and howling until released. Now its back was of stout canvas,
and its seat of cords, upon which a cushion rested. It was in general
appearance, though stout enough, a most disreputable chair among the
finer and more modern ones which stood along the porch upon either
side. But it was this chair that the aging woman loved. "It was this
chair he liked," she would say, "and it shall not be discarded. He used
to sit in it and rock and dream, and it shall stay there while I live."
She spoke the truth. It was that old chair the boy, now the city man,
had liked best of all.

She sat there, this gray-haired woman, a picture of one of the mothers
who have made this nation what it is. The hair was drawn back simply
from the broad, clear forehead, and her strong aquiline features were
sweet, with all their force. Her dress was plain. She sat there, looking
across the blue waters thoughtfully, and at moments wistfully.

Not far from the woman on the long, broad porch was a pretty younger
woman, and beside her two children were playing. The younger woman, the
mother of the tumbling youngsters, was the niece of the elder one in the
rude old rocking-chair. She spoke to the two children at times,
repressing them when they became too boisterous, or petting and soothing
when misadv