helping some one
else. I never refer to these scenes to others; in fact, no one here
knows of these painful pages in my history.

You will care to know what I am doing. I have a studio here on
Broadway, and am painting portraits. The old gift, that you were the
first to discover in me, when you said a kind word for my burlesque
sketch of you on the board, at Emburg (how often I do get back to that
old school-room), at last proved my salvation. Gradually I found that
I had talent in this direction, and I am making the most of it.
Carefully and honestly I took up the work, and with perseverance I have
attained my present success. I have studied with the best artists
here, and my work is well received. At the latest exhibition at the
Academy I was the winner of the first prize, and this fact has already
brought me more business than I can well attend to. I am delighted
with my work, but shall never rest satisfied till a picture of yourself
hangs in my room where it can watch me as I pursue my daily task.
Because, it is you who inspired me even to try to be a man and to do
something in the world. The credit is yours.

My father and mother are still in Illinois. I have communicated with
them several times recently. The children are grown, and several of
them have left home. I hope to see the family all together on the day
you receive this letter. I may also see you before I return to New
York.

I cannot close this letter without telling you further of the change
that has come to me in my religious and spiritual life. You know how
blasphemously unbelieving I was ten years ago. I thought then that I
had full cause for being so, but I was wrong there, as in all else. I
wandered far and long, but as I began to do what I believe was God's
will, I began to know the doctrine, as the book says we shall. I am
happy now in a religious life which I once believed it impossible for
any one to experience. These are the main features in my life.

So now I wish you adieu, and pray the good Father in heaven to bless
you all the days of your life. Your calling is the most noble in all
the world, and I do you but justice when I say that you are wholly
worthy of your profession. Remember me to your family, which I trust I
may now have your permission to mingle with again (ah! that day); and
believe me, ever sincerely yours, "Dodd."

Mr. Bright read the letter through to the end, then fell on his knees
and