ust what they meant to Anthy at particular moments
in her life. They came to her, as friends come to us in real life, as we
are ripe for them.

It was some time after her father's death, when she felt very much
alone, that Anthy wrote her first letter to Mr. Lincoln. Her father had
made Lincoln one of the most vivid characters of her girlhood: a
portrait of him hung over the mantel in the living-room, and there was
another at the office. One day, almost involuntarily, she began a
letter:

DEAR MR. LINCOLN: I wish you were here. My father knew you
well and trusted you more than he trusted any other man. He
used to say that no other American who ever lived had such
an understanding of the hearts of people as you had. I think
you would understand some of the troubles I am now having
with the _Star_, and that you would help me to be sensible
and strong. When I was in college I thought I had begun to
know something, but since I have come back here I feel like
a very small girl again. I don't _know_ enough to run the
_Star_, and yet I cannot let it go----

[Illustration: _She turned around quickly--but there was no one there to
see_]

Once started, she poured out her very heart to Mr. Lincoln: and having
completed the letter she folded it, placed it in an envelope, on which
she wrote "Abraham Lincoln," and going to the mantel slipped it behind
Mr. Lincoln's picture. Then she turned around quickly, looked all
about--but there was no one there to see. She told me long afterward
that it seemed at first a little absurd to be actually writing letters
to Mr. Lincoln, but that it relieved her mind and made her feel more
cheerful in her loneliness. After that it became an almost daily
practice for her to pour out her thoughts and difficulties to Mr.
Lincoln. And the place behind the portrait was the post office. She said
that sometimes during the busiest parts of the day the thought would
suddenly flash across her mind that she would tell Mr. Lincoln this or
that, and it gave her a curious deep sense of comfort. Each evening she
destroyed the letter she had written on the day before--destroyed them
all, except those which lie here on my desk.

I am sure that this practice meant a great deal in Anthy's life. One
cannot know much about any great human being, think what he would do
under this or that circumstance, or what he would say if he were here,
without coming to be somethi