Among the group in that cheerful room, I remember Lizzy well, a beautiful child, slender, dark-eyed, light-footed, very quiet, evidently observant, but saying little, affectionate, yet not demonstrative.

One evening during my visit, Mrs. Payson not being quite well, the elders had retired early, leaving Louisa and myself by the side of the fire, she preparing her school lesson and I occupied in reading.  The lesson finished, Louisa proposed retiring, but I was too much interested in my book to leave it and promised to follow soon.  She left me rather reluctantly, and I read on, too much absorbed in my book to notice the time, till near midnight, when I was startled by hearing Dr. Payson’s step upon the stairs.  I expected the reproof which I certainly deserved, but though evidently surprised at seeing me, he merely said, “You here? you must be cold.  Why did you let the fire go out?” Bringing in some wood he soon rekindled it, and began to talk to me of the book I was reading, which was one of Walter Scott’s poems.  He then spoke of a poem which he had been reading that day, Southey’s “Curse of Kehama.”  He related to me with perfect clearness the long and rather involved story, with that wonderful memory of his, never once forgetting or confusing the strange Oriental names, and repeating word for word the curse: 

  I charm thy life, from the weapons of strife,
  From stone and from wood, from fire and from flood,
  From the serpent’s tooth, and the beasts of blood,
  From sickness I charm thee, and time shall not harm thee, etc., etc.

I listened, intent, fascinated, forgot to ask why he was there instead of in his bed, forgot that it was midnight instead of mid-day.  It was not till on bidding me good night he added, “I hope you will have a better night than I shall,” that it occurred to me that he must be suffering.  The next day I learned from his wife that when unable to sleep on account of his racking cough, he often left his bed at night, the cough being more endurable when in a sitting posture.  I never saw Dr. Payson after that visit, nor for several years any of the family, except Louisa, who spent a year with us while attending school in Boston to fit herself as a teacher to aid in the support of her younger brothers and sister.  When I was next with them, Louisa was already at the head of a school in which her young sister was the brightest pupil, and to the profits of which she laid no personal claim, all going untouched into the family purse.  Several young girls, Louisa’s pupils, had been received as boarders in the family, and occasionally a clergyman was added to the number.  It was during this visit that I first learned to appreciate Mrs. Payson.  Now that she stood alone at the head of the household, either her fine qualities were in bolder relief, or I being older, was better able to estimate them.  The singular vivacity of her intellect made her a delightful companion.  Then her youth