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 evening with him. They seldom came without their
ladies and children. What romps we youngsters had about the old place
whilst our elders talked their politics.