ious browns; so she painted
the leaves in those shades, only--and the effect is richly and gravely
autumnal. I hope your eyes are better.

* * * * *

IV.

Return to Town. Recollections of this Period. "Ordinary" Christians and
spiritual Conflict. A tired Sunday Evening. "We may make an Idol of our
Joy." Publication of _Pemaquid_. Kezia Millet.

She returned to town early in October and began at once to prepare for
the winter's work. Her industry was a marvel. The following references
to this period are from reminiscences, written by her husband after her
death:

She lost not a day, scarcely an hour. The next eight months were among
the busiest of her life; and in some respects, I think, they were also
among the happiest. She resumed her painting with new zeal and delight.
It was a never-failing resource, when other engagements were over. Hour
after hour, day after day, and week after week she would sit near the
western window of her sunshiny chamber, absorbed in this fascinating
occupation. Rarely did I fail to find her there, on going in to kiss her
good-bye, as I started for my afternoon lecture. How often the scene
comes back again! Were I myself a painter I could reproduce it to the
life. Her posture and expression of perfect contentment, her quick and
eager movements, all are as vividly present to my mind, as if I saw and
parted from her there yesterday! One morning each week was devoted to
her Bible-reading; the others, when pleasant, were generally spent in
going down town with M. in quest of painting materials, shopping, making
calls, etc., etc.

She was much exercised in the early part of the winter by a burglary,
which robbed her of a beautiful French mantel clock given her on our
silver wedding-day by a dear friend; and by the loss of my watch, stolen
from me in the cars on my way home from the Seminary--a beautiful watch
with a chain made of her hair and that which once "crowned little heads
laid low." She had ordered it of Piguet, when we were in Geneva in 1858,
and given it to me in memory of our marriage. But _her_ grief over the
loss of the watch was small compared with mine, then and even since.
What precious memories can become associated with such an object! One
of the books which she read during the winter was "Les Miserables" by
Victor Hugo. She read it in the original in a copy given her by Miss
Woolsey. She was quite captivated by this work, and some of its