“He never did,” replied mamma; “his toys, like his meals, were peculiar.  One of the largest rooms in the house was chosen for his nursery, and as his mother would not have a carpet upon the floor, it was scrubbed daily.  Here his playthings were kept—­a singular assortment one would think them, but your aunt seldom gave him what would simply amuse him for the moment, but sought rather to surround him by objects that would suggest ideas to his mind—­on a plan somewhat like that of the Kindergarten system, but more poetic, and entirely original with herself.  He had lovely pictures, and a real violin, while the shops were constantly searched for whatever was curious, instructive, or beautiful.

“Pickie’s mind and conversation were very unlike those of the children even of our best families, for he never had children for playfellows, and those friends whom his mother permitted to be near him were of the most cultivated and noble character.  His language consequently was as choice as that of the minds who surrounded him, and very quaint it sounded from a child’s lips.  At this time Margaret Fuller was with us, and Pickie lived in most intimate relations to this pure, high-minded woman.

“In her care to prevent Pickie from knowing of the existence of wickedness and cruelty in this world, your Aunt Mary would rarely permit him to converse long with any save the chosen few that I have mentioned, lest the innocence of his child-mind should be shocked by hearing of war, or murder, or cruelty to animals, while she was ever guarding him lest his eyes might rest upon some painful or disagreeable object.”

“Don’t you think, mamma,” said Marguerite, “that that letter of Margaret Fuller’s upon Pickie’s death shows remarkable feeling for a child unrelated to her?”

“Which letter?” inquired Ida.

“The one that is copied in the ‘Recollections,’” was the reply.

“I think,” returned Ida, “that the one she wrote to papa which has never been published is much finer.”

“Oh, do read it to us,” said Marguerite.  So, unlocking a little box, Ida took out a sheet quite yellow and worn, and read it to us: 

“RIETI, August 25, 1848.

“MY BELOVED FRIEND:—­Bitterest tears alone can answer those words—­Pickie is dead.  My heart has all these years presaged them.  I have suffered not a few sleepless hours thinking of our darling, haunted with fears never again to see his sweet, joyous face which on me, also, always looked with love and trust.  But I always thought of small-pox.  Now how strangely snatched from you, oh poor mother; how vain all your feverish care night and day to ward off the least possible ill from that fair frame.  Oh, how pathetic it seems to think of all that was done for dear, dear Pickie to build up strong that temple from which the soul departed so easily.