r," interposed Ida, "how grandmamma is
remembered in Vermont. When Gabrielle and I were quite small children,
we went there on a visit, and papa took us to see some old lady (whose
name I have forgotten) residing in Westhaven. This lady had known
grandmamma very well, and, after contemplating Gabrielle and I for some
time, remarked curtly, 'Neither of you children are as handsome as your
grandmother was.'"

This uncomplimentary remark caused us all to laugh heartily. Mamma
then resumed her story.

"As for field labor, your grandmother may, while we were in New
Hampshire, have sometimes assisted father for a day or two during the
pressure of haying or harvesting time; but never, since I was old
enough to observe, can I recollect seeing her work in the fields.
Certainly mother was not a woman to hesitate to do cheerfully whatever
necessity required. But she had quite enough to occupy herself at home
with the entire duties of a house, with the spinning, weaving, and
making up of all the linen and woollen cloth that the household used;
and the care and early instruction of her little ones--for it was her
pride that all of her children learned to read before going to school.
I remember that when I was first sent to school, at the age of four,
the teacher, with a glance at my tiny figure (for I was a small,
delicate child), called me up to read to her, and opened the book at
the alphabet. Deeply injured, I informed her that I knew my letters,
and could read over in 'An old man found a rude boy in one of his
apple-trees,'--a fable that all familiar with Webster's Spelling-book
will remember.

"My first distinct recollection of mother is in the dark days in New
Hampshire. Father, as you know, had lost everything that he possessed,
and was obliged to fly into the next State to escape imprisonment for
debt. After he left, his furniture was attached and sold. I remember
seeing strange, rough men in the house, who pulled open all the trunks
and chests of drawers, and tossed about the beautiful bed and table
linen that mother had wrought before her marriage. Another picture,
too, is impressed indelibly upon my mind--how mother followed the
sheriff and his men about from room to room with the tears rolling down
her face, while brother Horace, then a little white-haired boy, nine
years old, held her hand and tried to comfort her, telling her not to
cry--he would take care of her.

"But mother, although humiliated and hea