Like the savage I was, I must be avenged on something.

I could not believe that my father was gone, the man who had been my model, my friend, my companion all my life.
But in time we laid him away in the sunny little graveyard of the Society of Friends, back of the little stone church at Wallingford.

We put a small, narrow, rough little slab of sandstone at his head, and cut into it his name and the dates of his birth and death; this being all that the simple manners of the Society of Friends thought fit.

"His temple is in my heart," said my mother; and from that day to her death she offered tribute to him.
Thus, I say, it was that I changed from a boy into a man.

But not the man my father had been.