themselves greatly as to a child's having that inheritance of happiness
with which we like to credit childhood. Who my people were had much to do
with my own character, and what those people were and had been it is
needful to say before I let my story run its natural and, I hope, not
uninteresting course.

In my father's bedroom, over the fireplace, hung a pretty picture done in
oils, by whom I know not. It is now in my library. It represents a pleasant
park, and on a rise of land a gray Jacobean house, with, at either side,
low wings curved forward, so as to embrace a courtyard shut in by railings
and gilded gates. There is also a terrace with urns and flowers. I used to
think it was the king's palace, until, one morning, when I was still a
child, Friend Pemberton came to visit my father with William Logan and a
very gay gentleman, Mr. John Penn, he who was sometime lieutenant-governor
of the province, and of whom and of his brother Richard great hopes were
conceived among Friends. I was encouraged by Mr. Penn to speak more than
was thought fitting for children in those days, and because of his rank I
escaped the reproof I should else have met with.

He said to my father, "The boy favours thy people." Then he added, patting
my head, "When thou art a man, my lad, thou shouldst go and see where thy
people came from in Wales. I have been at Wyncote. It is a great house,
with wings in the Italian manner, and a fine fountain in the court, and
gates which were gilded when Charles II came to see the squire, and which
are not to be set open again until another king comes thither."

Then I knew this was the picture upstairs, and much pleased I said eagerly:

"My father has it in his bedroom, and our arms below it, all painted most
beautiful."