occupy his
mind, for old Samuel Wyeth had left the estate sadly incumbered with his
debts, and more than half of it was sacrificed to save the rest. With
care and frugality, there yet remained enough to live on, and for the
first year, at least, there came no cloud to dim their happiness. Their
cup of joy was full to overflowing, so my mother often told me, when, on
the night of April 15,1735, a child was born to them. It was a boy, and a
week later, before the altar of the little Westover church, its worthy
rector christened the child "Thomas Stewart," the fifth of his line in
the New World.

CHAPTER IV

THE ENDING OF THE HONEYMOON

Besides my father and my mother, the figure which stands out most clearly
in my memory of my childhood is that of the man who christened me. I
cannot remember the time when I did not know and love him. He was a tall,
well-built man, with kindly face and clear blue eyes which darkened when
any emotion stirred him, and rode--how well I remember it!--a big, bony,
gray horse. It was on this horse's back that I took my first ride, when I
was scarce out of petticoats, and often after that, held carefully before
him on the saddle, or, as I grew older, bumping joyously behind, my arms
about his waist. My place was always on his knee when he was within our
doors, and he held me there with unfailing good humor during his long
talks with my mother, of which I, for the most part, comprehended
nothing, except that oftentimes they spoke of me, and then he would
smooth my hair with great tenderness. But I sat there quite content, and
sometimes dozed off with my head against his flowered waistcoat,--it was
his one vanity,--and wakened only when he set me gently down.

It was not until I grew older that I learned something of his history.
One day, he had seized time from his parish work to take me for a ramble
along the river, and as we reached the limit of our walk and sat down for
a moment's rest before starting homeward, and looked across the wide
water, I asked him, with a childish disregard for his feelings, if it
were true that his father was a Frenchman, adding that I hoped it were
not true, because I did not like the French.

"Yes, it is true," he answered, and looked down at me, smiling sadly.
"Shall I tell you the story, Thomas?"

I nodded eagerly, for I loved to listen to stories, especially true ones.

"When Louis Fourteenth was King of France," he began, and I think he took
a m