My dear Dr. Prentiss:—­When the news came of Mrs. Prentiss’ death I felt that I had lost a friend whose place could not be filled.  I never had a pupil in whom I was so much interested, or one that I loved so dearly.  She has told me many times that “the days spent with me were red-letter days in her life.”  They certainly were in my own.  I shall never forget her first visit to my studio on the corner of Fifth avenue and Twenty-sixth street.  We had not met before, and I felt somewhat awed in the presence of an authoress.  But in a few minutes we were fast friends.  Taking one of my portfolios in her arms she asked, “May I sit down on the floor and take this in my lap?” Of course I assented.  She pored over the contents with the delight of a child.  Then turning to me she said, “This is what I have had a craving for all my life.  There has always been a want unsupplied; I knew not what it was; but now I know.  It was a reaching out for the beautiful.  Look at my white hair and tell me if it would be possible for me to learn.”  I replied, “Yes, if you desire to do so.”  “Will you take me for a pupil?” she asked.  “I do not know which end of the brush to use.”  “No matter,” I said; “I can teach you.”

She became my pupil and you know the result.  But you can not know, as I do, the delight she took in her studies.  My ordinary pupils were limited to two hours.  But I said to her, “Come at ten and stay as long as you please.”  Punctual to the moment she came, seated herself at her easel, and rarely left it while the light lasted.  I never saw such enthusiasm or such appreciation.  At first her progress was slow, but as she gained knowledge of the materials, it became very rapid.  In my opinion she had remarkable talent, and, if spared, might even have made herself a name as an artist.  I have had hundreds of pupils, but not one of them ever made such progress.  What a delight it was to teach her!  All her quaint sayings and her beautifully expressed thoughts I treasured up as precious things.  She always brought brightness to the studio with her.  I can see her so plainly this moment as she came in one morning.  “Well,” she said, “I thought when I commenced painting if ever I painted a daisy that did not need to be labeled, I should be proud, and I have done it.”  I wish, dear Dr. Prentiss, I could recall the thousand and one pleasant things that every now and then have occurred to me, while I was thinking of her.  I tried to write to you when I heard of your great loss, but my heart failed me.  I could not, nor can I, imagine you living without her.  In her last letter to me she says, speaking of my daughter’s marriage: 

I hope thirty years hence the twain will be as much in love with each other as two old codgers of my acquaintance, who go on talking heavenly nonsense to each other after the most approved fashion.

How little I then dreamed that we should never meet again!  I should much like to see you all.  I have not forgotten that pleasant summer at Dorset in 1875, nor the great pan of blackberries you picked for me with your own hands.