CHAPTER I.

In the town of Kingston, in the State of Massachusetts, not many miles distant from that ancient and time-honored bay whose waters years ago kissed the prow of the “May Flower” as she approached a sterile and inhospitable shore, is situated the home of my childhood.

The dear old homestead, the scene of so many fond recollections, had descended from father to son for generations. The storms of many winters had beaten upon its roof; time had left its impress without, in the shape of moss-covered shingles; but within, all was youthful joy and gladness. Not a link in that family circle had been severed. In love and affection were we nurtured.

Although years have intervened since those sunny days of childhood, how often, while sojourning in distant lands, would memory recall with undimmed freshness the gladsome spring-time of youth. Happy days! too speedily do they fly, leaving, often, nought but the recollection of them to cheer us in our toilsome march. Early in life, I was united to one whose home was on the deep. Then came the sad partings from loved friends, to follow for many consecutive years the fortunes of my husband by sea and land. There were sad departures and joyful returns.