at sufficient
distances from the street and each other, to admit of those neat
yards, with shade-trees, flowers, and white fences, which are the
pride of New England, and scattered among the surrounding fields are
tasteful farm-houses.

There are two houses of worship in the place: the Episcopal church,
which was erected by the first settlers, before the revolution; and
the Congregationalist house, more recently built. There is but little
trade carried on in the place, and one store is sufficient to supply
the wants of the inhabitants. The Episcopal church stands on a slight
eminence, at a little distance from the main street of the village,
and a lane extending beyond it leads to the parsonage. A little
farther down this lane is my father's house, and nearly opposite the
house of Deacon Lee, the home of Clara Adams. Clara was left an orphan
at an early age. Her father was the son of an early friend of the old
rector. The latter, having no children, adopted Henry Adams, and
educated him as his own son, in the hope of preparing him for the
ministry, but with that perversity so common in human nature, the
youth determined to become an artist. The rector, not wishing to force
him unwillingly into the sacred office, consented that he should
pursue his favorite art. He placed him under the tuition of one of the
first painters in a neighboring city, hoping that his natural genius,
aided by his ambition, might enable him to excel. Henry Adams followed
his new pursuit with all the ardor of an impetuous nature, till the
bright eyes of Clara Lee won his heart, and his thoughts were directed
in a new channel, until he had persuaded her to share his lot. It
proved, indeed, a darkened lot to the young bride. Her husband was a
reckless, unsatisfied being, and though he ever loved her with all the
affection of which such natures are capable, the warm expressions of
his love, varied by fits of peevishness and ill-humor, were so unlike
the calm, unchanging devotedness of her nature that she felt a bitter
disappointment. Soon after the birth of their daughter his health
failed, and he repaired to Italy for the benefit of a more genial
climate, and in the hope of perfecting himself in his art. He lived
but a few months after his arrival there, and the sad intelligence
came like a death-blow to his bereaved wife. She lingered a year at
the parsonage, a saddened mourner, and then her wearied spirit found
its rest. The old rector would glad