Mercy’s letters disappointed Stephen.  They were loving; but they were concise, sensible, sometimes merry, and always cheerful.  Her life was constantly broadening; friends crowded around her; and her art was becoming more and more to her every day.  Her name was beginning to be known, and her influence felt.  Her verses were simple, and went to people’s hearts.  They were also of a fine and subtle flavor, and gave pleasure to the intellect.  Strangers began to write words of encouragement to her,—­sometimes a word of gratitude for help, sometimes a word of hearty praise.  She began to feel that she had her own circle of listeners, unknown friends, who were always ready to hear her when she spoke.  This consciousness is a most exquisite happiness to a true artist:  it is a better stimulus than all the flattering criticism in the world can give.

She was often touched to tears by the tributes she received from these unknown friends.  They had a wide range, coming sometimes from her fellow-artists in literature, sometimes from lowly and uncultured people.  Once there came to her by mail, on a sheet of coarse paper, two faded roses, fragrant,—­for they were cinnamon roses, whose fragrance never dies,—­but yellow and crumpled, for they had journeyed many days to reach her.  They were tied together by a bit of blue yarn; and on the paper was written, in ill-spelt words, “I wanted to send you something; and these were all I had.  I am an old woman, and very poor.  You’ve helped me ever so much.”

Another gift was a moss basket filled with arbutus blossoms.  Hid away in the leaves was a tiny paper, on which were written some graceful verses, evidently by a not unpractised hand.  The signature was in initials unknown to Mercy; but she hazarded a guess as to the authorship, and sent the following verses in reply:—­

  To E.B.

  At night, the stream came to the sea. 
    “Long leagues,” it cried, “this drop I bring,
  O beauteous, boundless sea! 
    What is the meagre, paltry thing
      In thine abundance unto thee? 
  No ripple, in thy smallest wave, of me
  Will know!  No thirst its suffering
  Shall better slake for my surrendering
      My life!  O sea, in vain
      My leagues of toil and pain!”

  At night, wayfarers reached the sea. 
    “Long weary leagues we came,” they cried,
  “O beauteous, boundless sea! 
    The swelling waves of thy swift tide
  Break on the shores where souls are free: 
  Through lonely wildernesses, unto thee
  One tiny stream has been our guide,
  And in the desert we had died,
      If its oases sweet
      Had not refreshed our feet.”

O tiny stream, lost in the sea,
Close symbol of a lifetime’s speech! 
O beauteous, boundless sea,
Close fitting symbol of the reach,
Of measureless Eternity! 
Be glad, O stream, O sea, blest equally! 
And thou whose words have helped to teach
Me this,—­my unknown friend,—­for each
Kind thought, warm thanks. 
Only the stream can know
How at such words the long leagues lighter grow.