onths in Cleveland, I received news that my
mother had left Berlin with my two youngest sisters to pay us a visit, and
to see what the prospects would be for my father in case she chose to
remain. Dear Mary, shall I attempt to describe to you the feeling that
over-powered me on the receipt of these tidings? If I did, you never could
feel it with me: for I could not picture in words the joy that I felt at
the prospect of beholding again the mother whom I loved beyond all
expression, and who was my friend besides; for we really never thought of
each other in our relation of mother and child, but as two who were bound
together as friends in thought and in feeling. No: I cannot give you a
description of this, especially as it was mingled with the fear that I
might not have the means to go to greet her in New York before another ten
months were over. Day and night, night and day, she was in my mind; and,
from the time that I had a right to expect her arrival, I counted the
hours from morning until noon, and from noon until night, when the
telegraph office would be closed. At length, on the 18th of September, the
despatch came,--not to me, but to my friend Mr. Mayo,--bearing the words,
"Tell Marie that she must calmly and quietly receive the news that our
good mother sleeps at the bottom of the ocean, which serves as her
monument and her grave." Mary, this is the most trying passage that I have
to write in this sketch of my life; and you must not think me weak that
tears blot the words as I write. My mother fell a victim to sea-sickness
which brought on a violent hemorrhage, that exhausted the sources of life.
She died three weeks before the vessel reached the port; and my two
sisters (the one seventeen and the other nine years of age) chose rather
to have her lowered on the Banks of Newfoundland, than bring to us a
corpse instead of the living. They were right; and the great ocean seems
to me her fitting monument.

Of course, upon the receipt of these tidings, I could remain no longer in
Cleveland, but took my last money, and went to New York to stay for a
while with my afflicted brother and sisters. The journey was very
beneficial to me; for, without it, I should not have been able to go
through my winter's study. During my stay in New York, I often visited Dr.
Elizabeth Blackwell, and learned that the little dispensary was closed
because her practice prevented her from attending it regularly; but that,
during my absence, sh