Not long after this, the poor Squire lost his wife. Her health had always been very delicate, and he had been a most devoted husband.
The Squire was a good man, and tried to find consolation in the only way it may be found, in the religious performance of duty. He became the benefactor of the village. He was the friend of all who needed his aid.
Now, my friends, I must pass over the next ten years. What I have just related to you of the Squire passed in the year seventeen hundred and eighty. Now follow me to the year seventeen hundred and ninety-two.
The Americans, by their wisdom and bravery, had won their independence.
The Squire had done his part for his country by furnishing money, and by making his large retired mansion an asylum for all his friends who were in want of it.
He was now seventy years old; and a haler, heartier, more serene old man was never seen. His house was the summer rendezvous of all his young and his old friends.
Well do I remember one beautiful afternoon, just before sunset, the Squire's going to the glass, and adjusting me nicely, and then going to the door, and looking up through the avenue of elms which were young trees when I was first carried there, and saying, "It is time my niece and her husband and children were here."
In a few minutes, a carriage appeared with a lady and her son and daughter in it. That little girl, then five years old, was afterwards the mother of our little friend asleep yonder.
Never was there a more cordial welcome given to friends than the good Squire gave them, and never was welcome more acceptable.
There were other friends in the house, and such frolicking and laughing and dancing on the lawn you seldom see nowadays.