ery grave and
scolded her and shut her up when she wouldn't learn her lessons.
She said that her own mother when thirty-six years old had fourteen
children, all of whom are now living, twelve of them boys, and that the
laws of Spain allow the father of six sons to ask a favor for them of
the King, but the father of twelve may ask a favor for each one; so
every one of her brothers had an office under the Government or was an
officer in the army. I don't know when I have been more amused, for she,
like all foreigners, was full of life and gesture, and showed us how she
tore her hair and threw down her books when angry with her husband.

The children are all bright and well. The first time we took the cars
after landing, M. was greatly delighted. "Now we're going to see
grandma," she cried. Mrs. Buck got up a picnic for her, and had a treat
of raspberries and sponge-cake--frosted. The cake had "M." on the top
in red letters. Baby is full of life and mischief. The day we landed
he said "Papa," and now he says "Mamma." Isabella [1] is everything we
could ask. She is trying to learn French, and A. hears her recite every
night. George found some furnished rooms at Montreux, which he has taken
for six months from October, and we shall thus be keeping house. A. has
just rushed in and snatched her French Bible, as she is going to the
evening service with some of the English family. You will soon hear all
about us from Mr. Stearns.

The following letter will show how little power either her own cares, or
the charms of nature around her, had to quench her sympathy for friends
in sorrow:

_To Miss A. H. Woolsey, Chateau D'Oex, Sept. 11, 1858._

We received your kind letter this morning. We had already had our
sympathies excited in behalf of you all, by seeing a notice of the death
of the dear little child in a paper lent to us by Mrs. Buck, and were
most anxious to hear all the particulars you have been so good as to
give us. This day, which fifteen years ago we marked with a white stone,
and which we were to celebrate with all our hearts, has passed quite
wearily and drearily. There is something indescribably sad in the
details of the first bereavement which has fallen within the circle
of those we love; perhaps, too, old sorrows of our own clamored for a
hearing; and then, too, there was the conviction, "This is not all death
will do while the ocean severs you from kindred and friends." We longed
to speak to you many words of