“I thought you would be so glad to get all these things!” said Anna.

“And so I am,” said Emily, “I only want you to love me better than any other little girl, because I love you better.”

“Well, and so I do,” returned Anna; “I love you ten times as well as I love Susan Morton.”

This satisfied Emily, and “for many days her restless little heart was as quiet and happy as a lamb’s.”

Another trait is brought out in the incident that occurred on her returning home from Anna’s.  She had written, or rather scratched, the word “Anna,” over one whole side of her room, while odd lines of what purported to be poetry filled the other.

But this was not all.  Her sister produced the beautiful Bible which had been given Emily by her Aunt Lucy, on her seventh birthday, and showed her father how all its blank leaves were covered with Annas.  Her father took the book with reverence, and Emily understood and felt the seriousness with which he examined her idle scrawls.  It was a look that would have risen up before her and made her stay her hand, should she ever again in her life-long have been tempted thus to misuse the word of God; just as the angel stood before Balaam in the narrow path he was struggling to push through.  But Emily never again was thus tempted; and ever after her Bible was sacredly kept free from “blot, or wrinkle, or any such thing.”

Her father now took her with him to his study, and gave her a great many pieces of paper, some large and some small, on which he told her with a smile, she could write Anna’s name to her heart’s content.  Emily felt very grateful; this little kindness on her father’s part did her more good than a month’s lecture could have done, and made her resolve never to do anything that could possibly grieve him again.  She went away to her own little baby-house and wrote on one of the bits of paper, some verses, in which she said she had the best father in the world.  When they were done, she read them over once or twice, and admired them exceedingly; after which, with a very mysterious air, she went and threw them into the kitchen fire.

This incident, so prettily related, illustrates the intensity of her friendships, shows that she had begun to write verses when a mere child, and gives a very pleasant glimpse of her father and of her devotion to him.

My intimate acquaintance with her commenced in 1832, when we were members of Miss Tyler’s Sabbath-school class.  Miss Tyler was a daughter of Rev. Dr. Bennett Tyler, her father’s successor.  She was greatly pleased when I told her I was going to attend her sister’s school, which was opened in the spring of 1833, on the corner of Middle and Lime streets.  My seat was next to hers and we were placed in the same classes.  Our homes were near each other on Franklin street, and we always walked back and forth together.  She was at this time a prolific writer of notes.  Sometimes she would meet me on Monday morning with not less than