A visit to Dorset was afterward arranged, and one of Mrs. Prentiss’ last letters was addressed to this old friend, giving her directions how to get there. [3]

To Mrs. Condict, New York, May 6, 1878. My last Bible-reading, or rather one of the last, was on prayer; as I could not do justice to it in one reading, I concluded to make a resume of the whole subject.  Though I devoted all the readings to this topic last summer, yet it loomed up wonderfully in this resume.  Last week the subject was “the precious blood of Christ,” and in studying up the word “precious” I lighted on these lovely verses, Deut. xxxiii. 13-16.  Since I began to study the Bible, it often seems like a new book.  And that passage thrilled the ladies, as a novelty.  I am to have but one more reading.  The last sermon I heard was on lying.  That is not one of my besetting sins, but, on the other hand, I push the truth too far, haggling about evils better let alone.  A. has just finished a splendid placque to order; a Japanese figure, with exquisite foliage in black and grey as background.  I have a widow lady every Saturday to paint with me; she has a large family, limited means, and delicate health; and I want to aid her all I can.  She enjoys these afternoons so much, and is doing so well.

The lady herself thus recalls these afternoons: 

How dearly I should love to add but one little flower to her wreath of immortelles!  I cherish memories of her as among the pleasantest of my life.  I recall her room so bright and cheery, just like herself, and all the incidents of those Saturday afternoons.  When she first asked me to paint with her, I thought it very kind, but with her multiplicity of cares, felt it must be burdensome to her, and that possibly she would even forget the invitation, and so I hesitated about going.  But when the week came round everything was made ready to give me a cordial welcome.  Again and again I found my chair, palette and other materials waiting for me, while she sat in her little nook, busy as a bee over some painting of her own.

One day, passing about the room, I saw on her book-shelves, arranged with order and precision, nine little butter plates in the form of pansies.  I uttered an exclamation of delight, and she from her corner, with the artlessness of a child, said, “I put them there for you to see.”  Another time she sprang up with her quick, light step, and ran to the yard to fetch a flower for me to copy, apparently thoughtless of two flights of stairs to tax her strength.  Sometimes she would read to me verses of poetry that pleased her.  Once I remember her throwing herself at my feet, and when I stopped to listen to the reading, she said, “Oh, go right on with your painting.”  Now she would relate some amusing anecdote that almost convulsed me with laughter, and then again speak of some serious theme with such earnestness of feeling!  She was eager to give of her store of strength and cheer to others, but the store seemed inexhaustible.  The more she gave, the more one felt that there was enough and to spare.  I looked forward to my little weekly visit as to an oasis in the desert; not that all else was bleak, but that spot seemed to me so very refreshing and attractive.