in the form of
pansies. I uttered an exclamation of delight, and she from her corner,
with the artlessness of a child, said, "I _put_ them there for you to
see." Another time she sprang up with her quick, light step, and ran to
the yard to fetch a flower for me to copy, apparently thoughtless of two
flights of stairs to tax her strength. Sometimes she would read to me
verses of poetry that pleased her. Once I remember her throwing herself
at my feet, and when I stopped to listen to the reading, she said, "Oh,
go right on with your painting." Now she would relate some amusing
anecdote that almost convulsed me with laughter, and then again speak of
some serious theme with such earnestness of feeling! She was eager to
give of her store of strength and cheer to others, but the store seemed
inexhaustible. The more she gave, the more one felt that there was
enough and to spare. I looked forward to my little weekly visit as to an
oasis in the desert; not that all else was bleak, but that spot seemed
to me so very refreshing and attractive.

Little did I think, when she loaded me down that last day with all I
could carry, then ran down to the parlor to show me some choice articles
there which she knew would give me pleasure--little did I think that I
should see her again no more! Not a day passed after leaving her that
she was not an inspiration to me. While painting a wayside flower I
would think, "Mrs. Prentiss would like this"--or, "In the fall I must
show that to Mrs. Prentiss." Even in my dreams she was present with me,
and one morning, only a little while before she passed from us, I waked
with a heavy burden upon my spirits--for it seemed to me as if she were
gone. The impression was so strong that I spoke of it at the time, and
for days could not throw it off. But at last, saying to myself, "Oh,
it is only a dream," I answered her little note, making, of course, no
reference to my strange feelings in regard to her. Her letter, by a
singular mistake, is dated "Kauinfels, _October_ 10, 1878," nearly two
months after she had fallen asleep. How just like her is this passage in
it: "I wish you could leave your little flock, and take some rest with
us. It would do you good, I am sure. Is it impossible? you do look so
tired." My letter in reply must have been one of the very last received
by her. In it I spoke of having just re-read Stepping Heavenward and
Aunt Jane's Hero, and of having enjoyed them almost as much as at the