f her children.
My mother's early life was like a chapter in a romance.
Captain Thomas Storrow, an English officer, being detained a prisoner in Portsmouth during that war, fell in love with a Portsmouth maiden, who adventurously married him at the age of seventeen, in 1777, and sailed with him to England.
These were my mother's parents.
The marriage had all the requisite elements of romance — youth, inexperience, two warring nations, and two deeply dissatisfied families.
The bride, Anne Appleton, represented two of the best families in the then somewhat aristocratic province of New Hampshire, the Appletons and the Wentworths; the latter, in particular, holding their heads so high that they were declared by a wicked Portsmouth wit to speak habitually of Queen Elizabeth as Cousin Betsy Tudor.
This was the nest in which my grandmother had been reared.
She had lived from childhood in the house of her grandfather, Judge Wentworth; her great-grandfather was the first of the three ro