ife, neither
the work and struggle "to make both ends meet," as we said, the hardest
to enforce.

It was good to know my parents were now free from petty anxieties, that
no unsettled bills hung over my father's head like threatening clouds,
and that my mother could, if she would, take more time; to herself.
Indeed she was forced to be less busy with hard work, for Aunt Hildy
worked with power and reigned supreme here, and I helped her in every
way. It was the help that came in these ways, I firmly believed, that
saved mother's life and kept her with us. This was a great comfort, but
none of us could say our desires ended here.

No, as soon as the vexed question of how to live had settled itself,
then within our minds rose the great need of enlarged understanding.
Millions of dollars could not have rendered me happy when my mind was
clouded, and now it seemed to me, while strength lasted, no work,
however hard it might be, could deprive me of the happiness and love
that filled my heart. I loved to read and think, and I loved to work
also.

Sometimes when my hands were filled with work and I could not stop to
write, beautiful couplets would come to me, and after a time stanzas
which I thought enough of to copy. In this way I "wrote myself down," as
Louis termed it, and occasionally he handed me a paper with my verses
printed, saying always:

"Another piece of my Emily."

May, 1853, brought Southern Mary and her husband to us. We met them with
our own carriage, and within her arms there nestled a dainty parcel
called "our baby," of whose coming we had not been apprised. What a
beautiful picture she was, this little lady, nine months old, the
perfect image of her mother, with little flaxen rings that covered her
head like a crown. I heeded not the introduction to her father, but,
reaching my hands to her, said:

"Let me have her, Mary, let me take her. I cannot wait a minute."

Louis gently reminded me that Mr. Waterman was speaking to me, and I
apologized hastily, as I gathered the blossom to my heart, where she sat
just as quiet as a kitten all the way home. Clara was delighted with the
"little bud," as she called her.

"Tell me her name," I said.

"Oh! guess it," said Mary.

"Your own?"

"No, no, you can never guess, for we called her Althea, after kind Mrs.
Goodwin, who nursed me so tenderly, and Emily, for another lady we
know"--and she looked at me with her bright eyes, while an arch smile
played over