e was such an enthusiastic lover of nature
that the out-of-door life she led was a constant enjoyment. She would
spend hours rambling in the woods, collecting ferns, mosses, trailing
vines, and every lovely bit of blossom and greenery that met her
eye--and nothing pretty escaped it--and there was always an added
freshness and brightness in her face when she came home laden with these
treasures, and eager to exhibit them. "Oh, you don't go crazy over such
things as I do," she would say as she held them up for our admiration.
She filled her room with these woodland beauties, and pressed quantities
of them to carry to her city home.

In that beautiful valley among the Green Mountains, some of whose near
summits rise to the height of three thousand feet, her enthusiasm for
fine scenery had full scope. She would watch with delight the sunset
glow as it spread and deepened along those mountain peaks, suffusing
them with a glory which we likened to that of the New Jerusalem; and as
we sat and watched this glory slowly fade, tint by tint, into the gray
twilight, her talk would be of heaven and holiness and Christ.

Whatever she felt, she felt intensely, and she threw her whole heart and
soul into all she said or did; this was one great secret of the power of
her personal presence; she felt so keenly herself, she made others feel.

Those summer days were long and bright and beautiful, but none too long
for her. She was one of the most industrious persons I have ever known,
and her writing, reading and sewing, and the care of her children,
over the formation of whose characters she watched closely and wisely,
occupied every moment of her time, except when she was out of doors,
trying by exercise in the open air to secure a good night's sleep; not
an easy thing for her to do in those days.

Early in August we were joined by Miss Hannah Lyman, of Vassar College,
a mutual friend and a most delightful addition to our little party.

We knew Mrs. Prentiss spent a part of every day in writing, but she
said nothing of the nature of her work. Do you remember coming into the
parlor one morning, where Miss Lyman and I were sitting by ourselves,
and telling us that she was writing a story, but had become so
discouraged she threatened to throw it aside as not worth finishing?
"I like it myself," you added, "it really seems to me one of the best
things she has ever written, and I am trying to get her to read it to
you and see what you thin