racteristic, 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
becomi