is frugality, that he lived, contented and
happy, on his income.

Our family consisted of my father and mother, of three children,
and of my grandmother, a centenarian, whose clear and lucid memory
contained a wealthy mine of historical facts that an antiquarian or
chronicler would have been proud to possess.

In the cold winter days the family assembled in the hall, where a
goodly fire blazed on the hearth, and while the wind whistled outside,
our grandmother, an exile from Acadia, would relate to us the stirring
scenes she had witnessed when her people were driven from their homes
by the British, their sufferings during their long pilgrimage overland
from Maryland to the wilds of Louisiana, the dangers that beset them
on their long journey through endless forests, along the precipitous
banks of rivers too deep to be forded, among hostile Indians, that
followed them stealthily, like wolves, day and night, ever ready to
pounce upon them and massacre them.

And as she spoke, we drew closer to her, and grouped around her and
stirred not, lest we lose one of her words.

When she spoke of Acadia, her face brightened, her eyes beamed with a
strange brilliancy, and she kept us spellbound, so eloquent and yet so
sad were her words, and then tears trickled down her aged cheeks and
her voice trembled with emotion. Under our father's roof she lacked
none of the comforts of life. We knew that her children vied with each
other to please her, and we wondered why it was that she seemed to be
sad and unhappy. We were then mere children and knew nothing of the
human heart, grim experience had not taught us its sorrowful lessons,
and we knew not that a remembrance has often the bitterness of gall,
and that tears alone will wash away that bitterness.

She sat in her rocking chair, with hands clasped on her knees, her
body leaning slightly forward, her hair, silvered over by age, could
be seen under the lace of her cap, her dress was neat and tasteful,
for she always took pride in her personal appearance.

She called us "petiots" meaning "little ones," and she took pleasure
in conversing with us. My father remonstrated with her because she
fondled us too much. "Mother," he would say, "you spoil the children,"
but she heeded not his words and fondled us the more. These details
are interesting to none but myself, and I dwell, perhaps, too long
upon them. Alas! I am an old man, reviewing the joys and sorrows of
my boyhood, and it seem