luence felt. Her verses were simple, and went to
people's hearts. They were also of a fine and subtle flavor, and gave
pleasure to the intellect. Strangers began to write words of
encouragement to her,--sometimes a word of gratitude for help, sometimes a
word of hearty praise. She began to feel that she had her own circle of
listeners, unknown friends, who were always ready to hear her when she
spoke. This consciousness is a most exquisite happiness to a true artist:
it is a better stimulus than all the flattering criticism in the world can
give.

She was often touched to tears by the tributes she received from these
unknown friends. They had a wide range, coming sometimes from her
fellow-artists in literature, sometimes from lowly and uncultured people.
Once there came to her by mail, on a sheet of coarse paper, two faded
roses, fragrant,--for they were cinnamon roses, whose fragrance never
dies,--but yellow and crumpled, for they had journeyed many days to reach
her. They were tied together by a bit of blue yarn; and on the paper was
written, in ill-spelt words, "I wanted to send you something; and these
were all I had. I am an old woman, and very poor. You've helped me ever so
much."

Another gift was a moss basket filled with arbutus blossoms. Hid away in
the leaves was a tiny paper, on which were written some graceful verses,
evidently by a not unpractised hand. The signature was in initials unknown
to Mercy; but she hazarded a guess as to the authorship, and sent the
following verses in reply:--

TO E.B.

At night, the stream came to the sea.
"Long leagues," it cried, "this drop I bring,
O beauteous, boundless sea!
What is the meagre, paltry thing
In thine abundance unto thee?
No ripple, in thy smallest wave, of me
Will know! No thirst its suffering
Shall better slake for my surrendering
My life! O sea, in vain
My leagues of toil and pain!"

At night, wayfarers reached the sea.
"Long weary leagues we came," they cried,
"O beauteous, boundless sea!
The swelling waves of thy swift tide
Break on the shores where souls are free:
Through lonely wildernesses, unto thee
One tiny stream has been our guide,
And in the desert we had died,
If its oases sweet
Had not refreshed our feet."

O tiny stream, lost in the sea,
Close symbol of a lifetime's speech!
O beauteous, boundless sea,
Close fitting symbol of the reach,
Of