In return for all this, they sometimes gave us an old collar, a silk apron, a soiled ribbon, or broken parasol—and once, when my parents visited them, they sent us a trunk full of rubbish, among which was Fielding’s “Tom Jones!” This my grandmother cautiously took from the trunk with the _tongs_ and threw into the fire, thereby creating in me so great a desire for a knowledge of its contents, that, on the first occasion which presented itself, I gratified my curiosity, feeling, when I had done so, that my grandmother was right in disposing of the volume as she did. Dear old lady! her aversion to everything savoring of fiction was remarkable, and when not long since a certain _medium_ informed me that she, my grandmother, was greatly distressed to learn that I had so far degenerated as to be _writing a book_, I thought seriously of giving up my project at once, and should probably have done so, had not another _medium_ of still greater power than the first received a communication, stating that, after due reflection, my grandmother had concluded that “I might continue the story called Meadow Brook, provided I showed off my Aunt Harding and her two daughters in their true character.” So, as a dutiful child, it becomes me to tell how my father, who was warmly attached to my Uncle Thomas, lent him money from time to time, and signed notes to the amount of several thousand dollars, never once dreaming that in the end _he_ would be ruined, while my uncle, influenced by his more crafty wife, managed in some unaccountable way to maintain nearly the same style of living as formerly; and if his proud daughters ever felt the ills of poverty, it was certainly not apparent in the rich silks and costly furs which they continued to sport. It was a terrible blow to us all, but upon no one did it fall so heavily as upon my father, crushing him to the earth, and rendering him nearly as powerless as is the giant oak when torn from its parent bed by the wrathful storm. The old homestead was endeared to him by a thousand hallowed associations. It was the home of his boyhood, and around the cheerful fires, which years ago were kindled on its spacious hearth-stone, he had played with those who long since had passed from his side, some to mingle in the great drama of life, and others to that world where they number not by years. There, too, in his early manhood had he brought his bride, my gentle mother, and on the rough bark of the towering maples, by the side of his own and his brothers’ names, were carved those of his children, all save little Jamie, who died ere his tiny fingers had learned the use of knife or hammer. No wonder, then, that his head grew dizzy and his heart sick as he thought of leaving it forever; and when at last the trying moment came, when with trembling hand he signed the deed which made him homeless, who shall deem him weak, if he laid his weary head upon the lap of his aged mother and wept like a little child?