said: "I did not know there were any
charitable eyes and ears in Boston." She showed indomitable courage to
the last. A lady in Boston, who lived opposite Mrs. Howe's home on
Beacon Street, was sitting at a front window one cold morning in
winter, when ice made the steps dangerous. A carriage was driven up to
Mrs. Howe's door to take her to the station to attend a federation at
Louisville. She came out alone, slipped on the second step, and rolled
to the pavement. She was past eighty, but picked herself up with the
quickness of a girl, looked at her windows to see if anyone noticed
it, then entered the carriage and drove away.

Was ever a child as unselfish as Mary Rice, afterwards Mary Livermore?
Sliding on ice was for her a climax of fun. Returning to the house
after revelling in this exercise, she exclaimed: "Splendid, splendid
sliding." Her father responded: "Yes, Mary, it's great fun, but
wretched for shoes."

Those words kept ringing in her ears, and soon she thought how her
father and mother had to practise close economy, and she decided: "I
ought not to wear out my shoes by sliding, when shoes cost so much,"
and she did not slide any more. There was no more fun in it for her.

She would get out of bed, when not more than ten years old, and
beseech her parents to rise and pray for the children. "It's no matter
about me," she once said to them, "if they can be saved, I can bear
anything."

She was not more than twelve years old, when she determined to aid her
parents by doing work of some kind; so it was settled that she should
become a dressmaker. She went at once into a shop to learn the trade,
remained for three months, and after that was hired at thirty-seven
cents a day to work there three months more. She also applied for
work at a clothing store, and received a dozen red flannel shirts to
make up at six and a quarter cents a piece. When her mother found this
out, she burst into tears, and the womanly child was not allowed to
take any more work home. We all know Mrs. Livermore's war record and
her power and eloquence as an orator.

I would not say she was a spiritualist, but she felt sure that she
often had advice or warning on questions from some source, and always
listened, and was saved from accidents and danger. And she said that
what was revealed to her as she rested on her couch, between twilight
and dusk, would not be believed, it was so wonderful.

Mrs. Livermore had a terrible grief to bear,