e was happily married; that no Jersey
Lovelace attempted to trifle with a heart whose impulses were so prompt,
and whose purposes were so sincere. They did not seem to know if she had
married or not. Yet it does not seem probable that such simplicity of
conception, frankness of expression, and deftness of execution, were
lost to posterity, or that they failed, in their time and season, to
give flavor to the domestic felicity of the period. Beyond this,
the story perhaps has little value, except as an offset to the usual
anecdotes of Hessian atrocity.

They had their financial panics even in Jersey, in the old days.
She remembered when Dr. White married your cousin Mary--or was it
Susan?--yes, it was Susan. She remembers that your Uncle Harry brought
in an armful of bank-notes,--paper money, you know,--and threw them in
the corner, saying they were no good to anybody. She remembered playing
with them, and giving them to your Aunt Anna--no, child, it was your own
mother, bless your heart! Some of them was marked as high as a hundred
dollars. Everybody kept gold and silver in a stocking, or in a "chaney"
vase, like that. You never used money to buy any thing. When Josiah went
to Springfield to buy any thing, he took a cartload of things with him
to exchange. That yaller picture-frame was paid for in greenings. But
then people knew jest what they had. They didn't fritter their substance
away in unchristian trifles, like your father, Eliza Jane, who doesn't
know that there is a God who will smite him hip and thigh; for vengeance
is mine, and those that believe in me. But here, singularly enough, the
inferior maxillaries gave out, and her jaw dropped. (I noticed that her
giddy daughter of eighty-five was sitting near her; but I do not pretend
to connect this fact with the arrested flow of personal disclosure.)
Howbeit, when she recovered her speech again, it appeared that she was
complaining of the weather.

The seasons had changed very much since your father went to sea.
The winters used to be terrible in those days. When she went over to
Springfield, in June, she saw the snow still on Watson's Ridge. There
were whole days when you couldn't git over to William Henry's, their
next neighbor, a quarter of a mile away. It was that drefful winter that
the Spanish sailor was found. You don't remember the Spanish sailor,
Eliza Jane--it was before your time. There was a little personal
skirmishing here, which I feared, at first, mi