My father, whose name was Locke Morgeson also, married early.  My mother was five years his elder; her maiden name was Mary Warren.  She was the daughter of Philip Warren, of Barmouth, near Surrey.  He was the best of the Barmouth tailors, though he never changed the cut of his garments; he was a rigidly pious man, of great influence in the church, and was descended from Sir Edward Warren, a gentleman of Devon, who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth.  The name of his more immediate ancestor, Richard Warren, was in “New England’s Memorial.”  How father first met mother I know not.  She was singularly beautiful—­beautiful even to the day of her death; but she was poor, and without connection, for Philip Warren was the last of his name.  What the Warrens might have been was nothing to the Morgesons; they themselves had no past, and only realized the present.  They never thought of inquiring into that matter, so they opposed, with great promptness, father’s wish to marry Mary Warren.  All, except old Locke Morgeson, his grandfather, who rode over to Barmouth to see her one day, and when he came back told father to take her, offered him half his house to live in, and promised to push him in the world.  His offer quelled the rioters, silencing in particular the 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?”