shouldn't know what to do without the ache, Dot,' he said to me one day
when he was only twelve years old. 'I've got so used to it, I should miss
it as much as I should miss you said it helps me to be good. I don't think
I should dare have it go away.' A few years later he wrote some lovely
little verses called 'The Angel of Pain,' which I will show you. Our life
after mamma died was very happy and peaceful. It makes me grieve for her,
even now, to think how little she was missed. We had all loved her. She
was always pleasant and good, and took the best possible care of us and of
everything; but she was not one of those persons whose presence makes
itself necessary to people. It seems hardly right to say such a thing, but
I really think papa seemed more cheerful without her, after the first. I
think that while she lived he was always groping and reaching after
something in her which did not exist. The hourly sight of her reminded him
hourly of his ideal of what a wife might be, and he was forever hoping
that she might come a little nearer to it--enter a little more into his
world of thought and feeling. This is how it has looked to me since I have
been married, and can understand just how terrible it must be to have the
person whom you love best, disappoint you in any way.

"Nat was in all my classes in school. Although he was three years younger
he was much cleverer than I, and had had nothing to do, poor dear, all his
life, but lie in his chair and read. I used to draw him to and from school
in a little wagon; the boys lifted it up and down the steps so carefully
it did not jar him; and papa had a special desk built for him, so high
that part of the wagon could roll under it, and the lid could rest just
wherever Nat needed it for writing or studying. When we went home, there
was always a sort of procession with us; a good many of the children had
to go in the same direction, but many went simply to walk by Nat's wagon
and talk with him. Whenever there was a picnic or a nutting frolic, we
always took him; the boys took turns in drawing him; nobody would hear a
word of his staying at home; he used to sit in his wagon and look on while
the rest played, and sometimes he would be left all alone for a while, but
his face was always the happiest one there. At school the boys used to
tell him everything, and leave things to his decision. Almost every day,
somebody would call out, at recess or intermission, 'Well, I'll leave it