A few short, characteristic, loving notes came from the city, before she left, and I did not hear from her at Dorset till the overwhelming news came of her death. I could not control my grief. Little Julia tried to comfort me with her sweet sympathy. "Dear grandma," she said, "I am sorry too. I can not feel so bad as you do, because you loved her so much, and you loved her so long; but I loved her too, and I can think just how she looked when she sat right there by that little table talking, and painting those beautiful flowers. Oh! I am very sorry." And here the poor child's tears flowed again with mine. So will all the children who knew her say, "We remember just how she looked." Yes, there was no mistaking or forgetting that kindly, loving "look." Julia's mother had felt its influence from her own early childhood till she left her precious little one to receive it in her stead. To each of these half-orphaned ones in turn, I had to read "Little Susy's Six Birthdays," and both always said to me when I finished, "Please read it again."

She could read and understand the heart of children through and through, as indeed she could everybody's. And that was, perhaps, her chiefest charm; a keen eye to see and a true heart to sympathise and love. She was absolutely sincere, and no one could help feeling that she was so. We felt ourselves fairly imaged when standing before her, as in a clear plate-glass mirror. There were no distorted lines caused by her own imperfections; for although she considered herself "compassed with infirmity," no one else could take such a view of her, but only saw the abundant charity which could cover and forgive a multitude of failings in others. We felt that if there was any good in us, she knew it, and even when she saw them "with all our faults she loved us still," and loved to do us good.

You would like me to tell you "how she looked." You can form some idea from her picture, but not an adequate one. Her face defied both the photographer's and the painter's art. The crayon likeness, taken shortly before her death by Miss Crocker, a young artist from Maine, is, in some respects, excellent. The eyes and mouth—not to speak of other features—are very happily reproduced. She was of medium height, yet stood and walked so erect as to appear taller than she really was. Her dress, always tasteful, with little or no ornament that one could remember, was ever suited to the time and place, and seemed the most becoming to her which could have been chosen. She was perfectly natural, and, though shy and reserved among strangers, had a quiet, easy grace of manner, that showed at once deference for them and utter unconsciousness of self. Her head was very fine and admirably poised. She had a symmetrical figure, and her step to the last was as light and elastic as a girl's.

When I first knew her, in the flush and bloom of young maternity, her face scarcely differed in its curving outlines from what it was more than a quarter of a century later, when the joys and sorrows of full-orbed womanhood had stamped upon it indelible marks of the perfection they had wrought. Her hair was then a dark-brown; her forehead smooth and fair, her general complexion rich without much depth of color except upon the lips. In silvering her clustering locks time only added to her aspect a graver charm, and harmonised the still more delicate tints of cheek and brow. Her eyes were black, and at times wonderfully bright and full of spiritual power; but they were shaded by deep, smooth lids which gave them when at rest a most dove-like serenity. Her other features were equally striking; the lips and chin exquisitely moulded and marked by great strength as well as beauty. Her face, in repose, wore the habitual expression of deep thought and a soft earnestness, like a thin veil of sadness, which I never saw in the same degree in any other. Yet when animated by interchange of thought and feeling with congenial minds, it lighted up with a perfect radiance of love and intelligence, and a most beaming smile that no pen or pencil can describe—least of all in my hand, which trembles when I try to sketch the faintest outline.

Hundreds of heart-stirring memories crowd upon me as I write, but it is impossible to give them expression. Her books give you the truest transcript of herself. She wrote, as she talked, from the heart. To those who knew her, a written page in almost any one of them recalls her image with the vividness of a portrait; and they can almost hear her musical voice as they read it themselves. But, alas! in reality—

No more her low sweet accents can we hear
No more our plaints can reach her patient ear.
O! loved and lost, oh! trusted, tried, and true,
O! tender, pitying eyes forever sealed;
How can we bear to speak our last adieu?
How to the grave the precious casket yield,
And to those old familiar places go
That knew thee once, and never more shall know?

I hear from heaven a voice angelic cry,
"Blessed, thrice blessed are the dead who lie
Beneath the flowery sod and graven stone."
"Yea," saith the answering Spirit, "for they rest
Forever from the labors they have done.
Their works do follow them to regions blest;
No stain hereafter can their lustre dim;
The dead in Christ from henceforth live in Him."

O! doubly dear transfigured friend on high,
We, through our tears, behold thine eyelids dry.
By Him who suffered once, and once was dead,
But liveth evermore through endless days,
God hath encircled thy redeemed head
With rays of glory and eternal praise,
And with His own kind hand wiped every trace
Of tears, and pain and sorrow from thy face.

C. W.
WILDWOOD, March 7, 1880.

One of the notes referred to is as follows: