he opposition of John
Morgeson, father's father.

In a month from this time, Locke Morgeson, Jr., took Mary Warren from
her father's house as his wife. Grandfather Warren prayed a long,
unintelligible prayer over them, helped them into the large,
yellow-bottomed chaise which belonged to Grandfather Locke, and the
young couple drove to their new home, the old mansion. Grandfather
Locke went away in the same yellow-bottomed chaise a week after, and
returned in a few days with a tall lady of fifty by his side--"Marm
Tamor," a twig of the Morgeson tree, being his third cousin, whom he
had married. This marriage was Grandfather Locke's last mistake. He
was then near eighty, but lived long enough to fulfill his promises
to father. The next year I was born, and four years after, my sister
Veronica. Grandfather Locke named us, and charged father not to
consult the Morgeson tombstones for names.

CHAPTER III.

"Mrs. Saunders," said mother, "don't let that soap boil over. Cassy,
keep away from it."

"Lord," replied Mrs. Saunders, "there's no fat in the bones to bile.
Cassy's grown dreadful fast, ain't she? How long has the old man been
dead, Mis Morgeson?"

"Three years, Mrs. Saunders."

"How time do fly," remarked Mrs. Saunders, mopping her wrinkled face
with a dark-blue handkerchief. "The winter's sass is hardly put in
the cellar 'fore we have to cut off the sprouts, and up the taters
for planting agin. We shall all foller him soon." And she stirred the
bones in the great kettle with the vigor of an ogress.

When I heard her ask the question about Grandfather Locke, the
interval that had elapsed since his death swept through my mind. What
a little girl I was at the time! How much had since happened! But no
thought remained with me long. I was about to settle whether I would
go to the beach and wade, or into the woods for snake-flowers, till
school-time, when my attention was again arrested by Mrs. Saunders
saying, "I spose Marm Tamor went off with a large slice, and Mr. John
Morgeson is mad to this day?"

Mother was prevented from answering by the appearance of the said Mr.
John Morgeson, who darkened the threshold of the kitchen door, but
advanced no further. I looked at him with curiosity; if he were mad,
he might be interesting. He was a large, portly man, over sixty, with
splendid black hair slightly grizzled, a prominent nose, and fair
complexion. I did not like him, and determined not to speak to hi