“I told you that father was a handsome man.  He had large blue eyes, soft, silky, brown curls clustering around a magnificent brow, a set color in his cheeks, and a hand that the hardest field labor could not deprive of its beauty—­long, tapering fingers, and pointed nails, such as novelists love to describe, but in real life are rarely seen outside of the most aristocratic families.  His teeth were small, white and even, and at the time of his death, when eighty-seven years old, he had only lost one.  His figure, though less than six feet, gave the impression of a much taller man; for he was slenderly built without being thin, and his carriage was almost military.  To this fine presence was added an air of dignity and almost hauteur, that was very unusual in a poor farmer.  But father was proud to an unparalleled degree.  Indeed, it was his pride that caused him to plunge into the wild forests of Pennsylvania.  His haughty nature could not bear the life of subordination that he led in Vermont, where he did not own an acre of land, and was obliged to work under the orders of others, often far inferior to him, and where he fancied the story of his flight from New Hampshire was known to every one.  Smarting with mortification, he toiled until he could save a few hundred dollars to buy some acres in the wilderness, far from all his former associates, and there he buried himself with my dear mother and their five little children.  But these morose feelings were somewhat subdued as the years rolled on.

“With his children he was affectionate, but, like an old-school father, very distant.  He never struck one of us in his life—­a glance being sufficient to enforce obedience, or subdue the wildest spirits.  He was always as particular about the etiquette of the table as though we were served by footmen in livery; and in our poorest days, when cups and saucers were scant and spoons still more so, we were obliged to observe the utmost decorum till we were helped; and any laughing or chatter among the younger ones was immediately quelled by the emphatic descent of father’s fork upon the coverless table, with the words, ’Children, silence!’

“Father was highly respected by our neighbors in Pennsylvania, and was often urged to accept some county office.  However, he always declined.”

“Do you think, mamma,” said Marguerite, “that grandmamma was as handsome as grandpapa?”

A pause of a moment or two.

“They were very different,” was her reply.  “Mother had neither father’s brilliant face, nor his imposing presence, but she was a very handsome woman.  She had soft blue eyes, a perfectly straight nose, a mouth rather large, perhaps, for beauty, but full of character, brown hair tinged with red, and a transparent, though not pallid complexion.  If you wish more minute details, look at your uncle’s picture.  No man ever resembled a woman more strikingly than he did our dear mother.”