oured temper or a
cross disposition, but the lines that show themselves as the years go by
are lines that indicate suffering and disappointment, patiently and
sweetly borne. The lips never forget to smile; the voice remains always
cheerful and sympathetic, never grows peevish and worried, as is too
often the case with overworked or disappointed women in this country.
But youth with its hopeful outlook, its plans and its ambitions, gives
way to age with its peaceful waiting for the end, with only a brief
struggle for its place; and the woman of thirty-five is just at the
point when she has bid good-by to her youth, and, having little to hope
for in her middle life, is doing her work faithfully, and looking
forward to an old age of privilege and authority, the mistress of her
son's house, and the ruler of the little domain of home.

But I have spoken so far only of those happy women whose sons grow to
maturity, and who manage to evade the dangerous reefs of divorce upon
which so many lives are shipwrecked. What becomes of the hundreds who
have no children to rise up and call them blessed, but who have in old
age to live as dependents upon their brothers or nephews? Even these,
who in this country often lead hard and unrewarded lives of toil among
their happier relatives, find in old age a pleasanter lot than that of
youth. Many such old ladies I have met, whose short hair or shaven heads
proclaim to all who see them that the sorrow of widowhood has taken from
them the joy that falls to other women, but whose cheerful, wrinkled
faces and happy, childlike ways have given one a feeling of pleasure
that the sorrow is past, and peace and rest have come to their declining
years. Fulfilling what little household tasks they can, respected and
self-respecting members of the household, the _O B[)a] San_, or Aunty,
is not far removed in the honor and affection of the children from the
_O B[=a] San_, or Grandma, but both alike find a peaceful shelter in the
homes of those nearest and dearest to them.

One of the happiest old ladies I have ever seen was one who had had a
rough and stormy life. The mother of many children, most of whom had
died in infancy, she was at last left childless and a widow. In her
children's death the last tie that bound her to her husband's family was
broken, and, rather than be a burden to them, she made her home for many
years with her own younger brother, taking up again the many cares and
duties of a mot