As the afternoon was wearing away, they came to the top of the high hill rising abruptly at the eastern end of the street of East Weatogue, where their journey was cut short by the breaking down of the wagon. The prospect which opened before them was beautiful indeed. The little village which was to be their home nestled at the foot of the mountain range, while fertile meadows stretched away in the distance, through which the Farmington river with its wooded banks wound its peaceful way, the horizon bounded by the range of mountains west of the town. It was a lovely picture, but the way-worn travellers could not realize its beauty, as they alighted from the broken wagon, and took their weary way down the hill to the village, leaving the driver to repair the wagon and follow later. My mother, walking on, came to a hospitable-looking home and ventured to ask a drink for the tired children. A pleasant-faced matron greeted them kindly, invited them in to rest, and offering my mother a cup of tea, proceeded to regale the hungry children with bread and molasses. This was their first welcome to their new home. My mother rejoiced to find that her new friend was from the dear home land, also that her husband was in the employ of the same firm. They became lifelong friends, and in sickness and in health it was their delight to show a sisterly kindness to each other. This good woman was "Auntie Whitehead," a warm friend of our family, who has since joined my mother in the heavenly home. At last, as the evening shadows were falling, the heavy wagon came slowly down the mountain, and we were lodged in our first home in America. It was an old-fashioned New England house, with long sloping roof and lean-to running down behind. It is still standing and in fair repair, just opposite the Cornish house, which stood by the old schoolhouse in East Weatogue. One half the house was occupied by the family of Mr. Joseph Eales, who was a member of the firm. We remained there for a time, and afterwards removed to the house standing where Mr. Aman Latimer's house now stands. But, desiring a more permanent home, my father bought the farm owned by Mr. Roswell Phelps, lying just at the foot of the mountain. It is now owned by Mr. Henry Ensign. My mother rejoiced to feel that at last her wanderings were over and she was settled in a home of her own. [Illustration: THE HOME IN EAST WEATOGUE]