d my voice
except for my own pleasure, and never for the sake of the art. I did try
to teach music a little while, and, oh, it was hopeless! I remembered
some of our old talks about drudgery, and thought it had been a happy
thing for me, if I had ever learned how to drudge over anything. What I
mean is, I have never learned how to go through a monotonous duty, how
to give it an inspiration which would make it possible or endurable. It
would have been easier to summon up all my struggling for the sake of
one great act of duty. I did not know how to scatter it over work day
after day the same. Worse than all, in spite of all my education, I did
not know enough of music to teach it."

She went on, not merely this evening, but afterwards, to tell me of the
different efforts she had made to earn a living for herself with the
help of kind friends.

"At last," she said, "I bethought me of my handwriting, of the 'elegant'
notes which used to receive such praise; and when I met Mr. Clarkson one
day in Boston, I asked him what price he would pay me for it. I will
tell you that he was very kind, very thoughtful for me. He fancied the
work he had to offer would be distasteful to me; but he has made it as
agreeable, as easy to be performed, as can be done. My aunt was willing
to come here with me. She has just enough to live upon herself, and we
are likely to live comfortably together here. So I am trying that sort
of work you praised so much when you were with me; and I shall be glad,
if you can go on and show me what inspiration can bring into it."

So day after day I saw her, and evening after evening we renewed the old
talks. The summer passed on, and the early morning found her daily at
her work, every day pursuing an unaccustomed labor. Her spirit seemed
more happy and joyous than ever. She seemed far more at home than in the
midst of crowded streets and gay, brilliant rooms. Her expression was
more earnest and spiritual than ever,--her life, I thought, gayer
and happier.

So I thought till one evening, when we had walked far away down the
little stream that led out of the town. We stopped to look into its
waters, while she leaned against the trunk of a tree overshadowed it. We
watched the light and shade that nickered below, the shadow of the
clover-leaves, of the long reeds that hung almost across the stream. The
quiet was enhanced by the busy motion below, the bustle of little animal
life, the skimming of the water-inse