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.
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