was all in white, with a
sprig of blossoms in her hair, and she must have made a pretty picture
standing there, and one to warm the heart of any man.

Of the week that followed, neither my father nor my mother ever told me
much,--its memories were too sweet to trust to words, perhaps,--but the
event was, that on the first day of May, 1734, Thomas Stewart, attorney,
and Patricia Wyeth, spinster, were made man and wife in Westover church
by the Reverend Peter Fontaine, of sainted memory. How well I recall his
benign face, and what tears of affectionate remembrance brimmed my eyes
when I heard, not long ago, that he was dead! The closing sentences of
his will show how he ever thought of others and not of himself, for he
wrote: "My will and desire is, that I may have no public funeral, but
that my corpse may be accompanied by a few of my nearest neighbors; that
no liquors be given to make any of the company drunk,--many instances of
which I have seen, to the great scandal of the Christian religion and
abuse of so solemn an ordinance. I desire none of my family to go in
mourning for me." His sister sent me a copy of the will, and a very
pretty letter, in which she told me how her brother often spoke of me,
and wished me to have his Bible. It is there on the shelf at my bedside,
and while God gives me life I will read in no other.

It was in the modest Wyeth homestead, on the bank of the James, that my
father and mother entered upon their honeymoon. Of the depth of their
love for each other I know best of all, and the summer slipped away on
golden wings. My father thought no more of returning to Williamsburg, nor
did he greatly regret Riverview. He wrote a formal letter to his mother
announcing his marriage, but no answer came to it, and I doubt not that
worthy woman sobbed herself to sleep more than once in grieving over the
obstinacy of her husband and her son. Dear lady, it was this trouble
which did much to shorten her days, and the end came soon afterwards. 'T
is said that on her deathbed she tried to soften her husband's heart
against their boy, but with such ill success that she fell sobbing into
the sleep from which she was never to awaken. To such a degree can a
fault persisted in change the natural humor of a man.

My father, perhaps, hoped for a reply to his letter, but he showed no
sign of disappointment when none came, and never spoke upon the subject
to my mother. He soon found enough in his affairs at home to