to Boston with me, and
from that time until her death, two years later, we lived together. She
was immensely interested in my work, and the friendly part she took in
it diverted her mind from the bereavement over which she had brooded for
years, while to me her coming opened windows into a new world. I was
no longer lonely; and though in my life with her I paid my way to
the extent of my small income, she gave me my first experience of
an existence in which comfort and culture, recreation, and leisurely
reading were cheerful commonplaces. For the first time I had some one
to come home to, some one to confide in, some one to talk to, listen
to, and love. We read together and went to concerts together; and it was
during this winter that I attended my first theatrical performance. The
star was Mary Anderson, in "Pygmalion and Galatea," and play and player
charmed me so utterly that I saw them every night that week, sitting
high in the gallery and enjoying to the utmost the unfolding of this new
delight. It was so glowing a pleasure that I longed to make some return
to the giver of it; but not until many years afterward, when I met
Madame Navarro in London, was I able to tell her what the experience had
been and to thank her for it.

I did not long enjoy the glimpses into my new world, for soon, and
most tragically, it was closed to me. In the spring following our first
Boston winter together Mrs. Addy and I went to Hingham, Massachusetts,
where I had been appointed temporary pastor of the Methodist Church.
There Mrs. Addy was taken ill, and as she grew steadily worse we
returned to Boston to live near the best available physicians, who for
months theorized over her malady without being able to diagnose it. At
last her father, Captain Crowell, sent to Paris for Dr. Brown-Sequard,
then the most distinguished specialist of his day, and Dr.
Brown-Sequard, when he arrived and examined his patient, discovered that
she had a tumor on the brain. She had had a great shock in her life--the
tragic death of her husband at sea during their wedding tour around
the world--and it was believed that her disease dated from that time.
Nothing could be done for her, and she failed daily during our second
year together, and died in March, 1878, just before I finished my
theological course and while I was still temporary pastor of the church
at Hingham. Every moment I could take from my parish and my studies I
spent with her, and those were sorr