will rarely see her. I never have realized until lately
the horror of such a long life as hers, living on and on, with one's
friends gone long ago: such an endless life in this world!"

Then there was a mysterious old person living at the ferry, and there
was a question whether I would not be "afraid" of her. She "had not
changed" since my father was a boy: "it was horrible to have one's
life endless in this world!"

The days went quickly by. My mother, who was somewhat of an invalid,
grew sad as the time drew near for saying good-by to me, and was more
tender and kind than ever before, and more indulgent of every wish and
fancy of mine. We had been together all my life, and now it was to be
long months before she could possibly see my face again, and perhaps
she was leaving me forever. Her time was all spent, I believe, in
thoughts for me, and in making arrangements for my comfort. I did see
my mother again; but the tears fill my eyes when I think how dear we
became to each other before that first parting, and with what a
lingering, loving touch, she herself packed my boxes, and made sure,
over and over again, that I had whatever I should need; and I remember
how close she used to hold me when I sat in her lap in the evening,
saying that she was afraid I should have grown too large to be held
when she came back again. We had more to say to each other than ever
before, and I think, until then, that my mother never had suspected
how much I observed of life and of older people in a certain way; that
I was something more than a little child who went from one interest to
another carelessly. I have known since that my mother's childhood was
much like mine. She, however, was timid, while I had inherited from my
father his fearlessness, and lack of suspicion; and these qualities,
like a fresh wind, swept away any cobwebs of nervous anticipation and
sensitiveness. Every one was kind to me, partly, I think because I
interfered with no one. I was glad of the kindness, and, with my
unsuspected dreaming and my happy childishness, I had gone through
life with almost perfect contentment, until this pain of my first real
loneliness came into my heart.

It was a day's journey to cousin Matthew's house, mostly by rail;
though, toward the end, we had to travel a considerable distance by
stage, and at last were left on the river-bank opposite my new home,
and I saw a boat waiting to take us across. It was just at sunset, and
I remembe