e of
Clymer.

"Father died in 1867, at the age of eighty-seven.

"As for mother, she had the happiness before her death of seeing her
fondly loved relatives once more. In the autumn of 1843, mother and I
went to New Hampshire to visit the old home and friends. Father was
urged to accompany us, but he chose to cling to his Western home. For
the third time I now travelled in a canal-boat, but this time it was a
packet, and not one of the slow 'line-boats' that I described to you in
speaking of our journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania.

"Brother Horace accompanied us from New York to New Hampshire, where we
spent several weeks visiting mother's old friends and relatives. The
meeting between mother and her sister, Aunt Margaret Dickey, was
especially tender, for they had been separated many years, and did not
expect to meet again.

"Aunt Margaret is still living, although now in her ninetieth year. I
remember hearing that she read your uncle's 'Recollections,' as they
appeared in the _Ledger_, with the liveliest interest. She was at that
time eighty-four years old.

"In her youth Aunt Margaret was a decided beauty, with luxuriant hair
of the real golden shade, neither flaxen, ash-color, nor red. She was
naturally refined and amiable.

"From New Hampshire we went to Fitchburg, Massachusetts, where mother's
half-sister, Sally, resided. Aunt Sally was doubly my aunt, having
married father's brother, Dustin Greeley. She was a slender, handsome
woman, with blue eyes and light hair, and possessed mother's happy
temperament, which all the trials of her hard life had not been able to
change.

"That year I celebrated three Thanksgivings within as many weeks."

"Pray how did that happen, auntie?" inquired Gabrielle, who had just
entered the room.

"Thanksgiving Day was not then restricted to the last Thursday in the
month," was the reply, "but was appointed by the Governor of each State
at any time that he saw fit between harvest and the holidays;
therefore, being in three different States within a month, I had three
Thanksgiving dinners.

"When we returned to New York, we stopped for a short visit at Turtle
Bay. Pickie was then eight months old, and as sweet and poetic-looking
as one of Correggio's cherubs. Your mamma was then in the first flush
of her maternal enthusiasm. She and your papa were desirous that
mother should remain in New York and spend the winter with them; but
fondly as she loved your papa,