ll's Island, and, walking
through the women's hospital, shed the balm of her presence upon the
most hardened of its wretched inmates. She had always wished to have a
better understanding of the feelings and needs of "those women who are
trampled in the mud to gratify the brute appetites of men," in order to
lend them a helping hand.

The following extracts from letters, hitherto in great part unpublished,
will give the reader some idea of Margaret's tender love and care for
the dear ones from whom she was now separated. The letters are mostly
addressed to her younger brother, Richard, and are dated in various
epochs of the year 1845. One of these recalls her last impressions in
leaving Boston:--

"The last face I saw in Boston was Anna Loring's, looking after me from
Dr. Peabody's steps. Mrs. Peabody stood behind her, some way up, nodding
adieux to the 'darling,' as she addressed me, somewhat to my emotion.
They seemed like a frosty November afternoon and a soft summer twilight,
when night's glorious star begins to shine.

"When you go to Mrs. Loring's, will you ask W. Story if he has any of
Robert Browning's poems to lend me for a short time? They shall be
returned safe. I only want them a few days, to make some extracts for
the paper. They cannot be obtained here."

The following extracts refer to the first appearance of her book, "Woman
in the Nineteenth Century." Her brother Eugene had found a notice of it
in some remote spot. She writes:--

"It was pleasant you should see that little notice in that wild place.
The book is out, and the theme of all the newspapers and many of the
journals. Abuse, public and private, is lavished upon its views, but
respect is expressed for me personally. But the most speaking fact, and
the one which satisfied me, is, that the whole edition was sold off in a
week to the booksellers, and eighty-five dollars handed to me as my
share. Not that my object was in any wise money, but I consider this the
signet of success. If one can be heard, that is enough."

In August, 1845, she writes thus to Richard:

"I really loathe my pen at present; it is entirely unnatural to me to
keep at it so in the summer. Looking at these dull blacks and whites so
much, when nature is in her bright colors, is a source of great physical
weariness and irritation. I cannot, therefore, write you good letters,
but am always glad to get them.

"As to what you say of my writing books, that cannot be at present