"You must often have felt lonely, mamma, did you not, living so far away from all places of amusement, lectures, and the like? Indeed, I suppose that buried as you were in the woods, you did not even have the excitement of going to church." "No," said mamma; "we were dependent for entertainment entirely upon our own resources and the few books we had brought with us from Vermont; but we children were never conscious of a lonely hour, and if dear mother felt sad and weary of our uneventful life, we never knew it. "We worked hard all day, every one of us, even little Margaret having something to do; but in the evening we had a change of occupation. At twilight, when father and brother Barnes had come home, and our early supper was over, father would say: "'Mary, what have you to read to us to-night?' "Immediately fresh logs would be piled up in the great open fireplace, the candles lighted, we girls would draw up to the table with our knitting or sewing, Barnes would throw himself down before the fire, and mother would take up a book for the evening's reading. This reading was as much a part of the routine of the day as dinner or supper, and was indeed our only means of culture that winter, distant as we were from schools and all other educational advantages. Mother always monopolized the position of reader; indeed, until after her death, father seldom read a book, but contented himself with being a listener." "And was he a good listener, mamma?" I inquired, "or did he stop grandmamma from time to time to comment upon the author and the events?" "Father's intentions were the best in the world," replied mamma smiling, "but you must remember that he would sit down to listen, completely exhausted from a day's work that had commenced with the first tinge of dawn, and before very long, soothed by mother's musical voice, his breathing would become more and more audible, and his head commence to nod. Quite patiently mother would continue her chapter, feigning not to be conscious of the heavy breathing that proceeded from the arm-chair, and often from the boyish figure stretched before the fire, until their slumber would become _too_ apparent, when, closing the book, she would call them severely to task for their inattention. "Rubbing his eyes, father would rouse up, and indignantly refuting the accusation, declare that he had heard every word. "Instantly putting him to the test, mother would inquire what she had been reading about? "After a moment of deep reflection, father would say penitently: "'Well, Mary, if you will just read back a page or two, I will remember all about it.' "Very indulgently mother would turn back, but often before she had reached the former stopping-place, father's breathing would announce that he was again resting from the hard day's toil.