fectly happy. The filial sentiment was mingled with a pride and tenderness which I had never felt before.
Another part of his wardrobe, the knitting of his stockings, I claimed as my especial province. It had been so considered since the death of his mother, and until his own, at the age of eighty-seven. I think no other shared with me that privilege, and am sure than none were purchased. It was the habit of our family, and not a peculiarity at that day, that this article of dress should be of domestic manufacture. With us the yarn of which they were made emanated from our own wheels, and was more durable, because more carefully wrought, than what was for sale in the shops. We produced cotton of various degrees of fineness—linen thread for summer, and wool for the colder seasons. To the hose destined for my father I devoted particular attention, because short breeches and buckles being essential to the full dress of a gentleman, the encasing of the lower limbs was more conspicuous than since the easier regency of the pantaloon. I took pleasure in making his ribbed, viz., knitting two stitches and seaming one, which, though a slower process, rendered them more adhesive, and better revealed the symmetry of his well-shaped limbs.
Great was his complacence in my various little works to please him. Yet always calm and equable, he never boasted of them or praised me. I cannot recollect that he ever thanked me. I would not have had
