“Well,” said my mother, “I do not feel alarmed about our Emily, but, of course, it is better to take too much precaution than not enough,” and their conversation ended.

When an opportunity presented I talked with mother, told her what I had heard, and all that Louis had said to me, almost word for word, and the result was her confidence.  When our talk closed, she said in her own impressive way: 

“I will trust you, my daughter, and only one thing more I have to say:  Let me urge upon you the importance of testing your own deepest, best feelings in regard to this and every other important step—­yes, and unimportant ones as well.  There is a monitor within that will prove an unerring guide to us at all times.  If we do not permit ourselves to be hurried and driven into other than our own life channels we shall gather from the current an impetus, which comes from the full tide of our innate thought.  Such thought develops an inner sense of truth and fitness, which is a shield ever covering us, under any and all circumstances.  It holds us firmly poised, no matter which way the wind may be, or from what quarter it strikes us.”

This thought I could not then appreciate fully, but I did what I could toward it, and it was, in after years, even then, an anchor.  My mother’s eyes were beautiful; they looked like wells, and when thoughts like these rose to mingle with their light, they seemed twice as large and full and deep as on ordinary occasions.  I never wanted to disobey her, and in those days we read through together the chapters in life’s book that opened every sunrise with something new.  Our souls were blent as one in a delightful unity, that savored more of Paradise than earth, and now with Hal’s returning strength, there was a triple pulsation of mingled thought.  Oh, Halbert, my blessed brother, no wonder my eyes are brimming with tears of love at these dear recollections!  Louis had sent him a large box of material for doing his work, and Clara had insisted on his having one of her new rooms for a studio, and everything was as perfect as tasteful appointments could make it, even to the dressing-gown she had made for him.

She made this last with her own hands, of dark blue cashmere, corded with a thread of gold.  He had to wear it, too, for she said nothing could be too nice to use.

“Why, my dear Halbert,” she added, “the grass is much nicer and you walk on that.”

The rich rosy flush came slowly enough into his pale cheeks, but it found them at last, and I do believe when we saw the work grow so fast under his hands, we were insane with joy.  To think our farmer boy who followed the cows so meekly every night had grown to be a man and a sculptor, throwing such soul into his work as to model almost breathing figures!  His first work was a duplicate of the piece at Mr. Hanson’s, and was made at Louis’ especial request.  His next work was a study in itself.  It was an original subject worthy of Hal’s greatest