or a servant until she began to talk. "Who is that
woman who dresses like a peasant, and speaks like a scholar?" he asked
on leaving the coach. Naturally, it was thought Mrs. Child did not
know how to dress, or, more likely, did not care for pretty things.
"You accuse me," she writes to Miss Lucy Osgood, "you accuse me of
being indifferent to externals, whereas the common charge is that I
think too much of beauty, and say too much about it. I myself think it
one of my greatest weaknesses. A handsome man, woman or child can
always make a pack-horse of me. My next neighbor's little boy has me
completely under his thumb, merely by virtue of his beautiful eyes and
sweet voice." There was one before her of whom it was said, "He
denied himself, and took up his cross." It was also said of him,
"Though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor." He never had a
truer disciple than Mrs. Child.

Not that she ever talked of "crosses." "But why use the word
sacrifice?" she asks. "I never was conscious of any sacrifice." What
she gained in moral discipline or a new life, she says, was always
worth more than the cost. She used an envelope twice, Wendell Phillips
says; she never used a whole sheet of paper when half of one would do;
she outdid poverty in her economies, and then gave money as if she had
thousands. "I seldom have a passing wish for enlarging my income
except for the sake of doing more for others. My wants are very few
and simple."

In 1867, Mrs. Child published "A Romance of the Republic," a pathetic
story, but fascinating, and admirably written; in 1878, appeared a
book of choice selections, entitled, "Aspirations of the World"; and
in 1871, a volume of short biographies, entitled "Good Wives," and
dedicated, to Mr. Child: "To my husband, this book is affectionately
inscribed, by one who, through every vicissitude, has found in his
kindness and worth, her purest happiness and most constant incentive
to duty."

Mr. Child died in 1874 at the age of eighty, and Mrs. Child followed
him in 1880, at the age of seventy-eight. After her death, a small
volume of her letters was published, of which the reader will wish
there were more. Less than a month before her death, she wrote to a
friend a list of benevolent enterprises she has in mind and says, "Oh,
it is such a luxury to be able to give without being afraid. I try not
to be Quixotic, but I want to rain down blessings on all the world, in
token of thankfulness for t