any, indeed, thought the
story sprang from Grafton's jealousy and hatred. Then it was that Mr.
Carvel gave to Grafton the estate in Kent County and bade him shift for
himself, saying that he washed his hands of a son who had acted such a
part.

But Captain Clapsaddle came to the wedding in the long drawing-room at
the Hall and stood by Captain Jack when he was married, and kissed the
bride heartily. And my mother cried about this afterwards, and said that
it grieved her sorely that she should have given pain to such a noble
man.

After the blow which left her a widow, she continued to keep Mr.
Carvel's home. I recall her well, chiefly as a sad and beautiful woman,
stately save when she kissed me with passion and said that I bore my
father's look. She drooped like the flower she was, and one spring day
my grandfather led me to receive her blessing and to be folded for
the last time in those dear arms. With a smile on her lips she rose
to heaven to meet my father. And she lies buried with the rest of the
Carvels at the Hall, next to the brave captain, her husband.

And so I grew up with my grandfather, spending the winters in town and
the long summers on the Eastern Shore. I loved the country best, and the
old house with its hundred feet of front standing on the gentle slope
rising from the river's mouth, the green vines Mr. Carvel had fetched
from England all but hiding the brick, and climbing to the angled
roof; and the velvet green lawn of silvery grass brought from England,
descending gently terrace by terrace to the waterside, where lay our
pungies and barges. There was then a tiny pillared porch framing the
front door, for our ancestors never could be got to realize the Maryland
climate, and would rarely build themselves wide verandas suitable to
that colony. At Carvel Hall we had, to be sure, the cool spring house
under the willows for sultry days, with its pool dished out for bathing;
and a trellised arbour, and octagonal summer house with seats where
my mother was wont to sit sewing while my grandfather dreamed over his
pipe. On the lawn stood the oaks and walnuts and sycamores which still
cast their shade over it, and under them of a summer's evening Mr.
Carvel would have his tea alone; save oftentimes when a barge would come
swinging up the river with ten velvet-capped blacks at the oars, and
one of our friendly neighbours--Mr. Lloyd or Mr. Bordley, or perchance
little Mr. Manners--would stop for a long even