When I came here first, I told the nurse my name was Mary Huestis; that was my maiden name; I hardly know why I prefer that to my sons’ name, for they are sons no mother need be ashamed of.  My prayers for them have always been, that they might be a benefit to their fellows; that they grow to be good men; to be able to fill their places in the world as useful members of society, not living entirely for themselves, but for the good of others, an honor to themselves and a blessing to the world.  If we live well, we will not be afraid to die.  “Perfect love casteth out fear.”  I must write no more today.

March 24.—­Two years ago today I was watching by the bedside of my dying child.  Driven from our home by the fire, I was tarrying for her to complete her education in the city of Lowell, which is second to no city in the world for its educational privileges.  Free schools, with books free to all its children, and excellent teachers.  To Lowell schools and to my darling child, I must here pay this tribute.  The day after her death, the principal of the school she attended addressed the school with these words—­“Clara Pengilly has attended this school two years, and I have never heard a fault found with her; there has never been a complaint brought to me by teacher or schoolmates concerning her.”  Her teacher brought me two large bouquets to ornament the room at her funeral, sent by the pupils and teachers of the school where she had been a happy attendant, for she loved her teachers, and always told me how good and kind they were to her; no wonder every one loved her, for she had a loving heart and a nature so full of sunshine she could not be unhappy.  We had boarded eight months with a lady whose only daughter was blind from her birth.  Clara loved to lead her out for a walk, and read to her at home; no pleasure was complete unless shared with her blind friend, who was younger than herself, and whose life she could brighten by her willingness to devote her unoccupied time to her service.  Dear Lorelle, we all loved her for her goodness, and pitied her for her infirmity.  The boarders and others at her home sent flowers too.  Her mother arranged a green vine and flowers around her face and in her hand.  When she had finished, she said, “That is the last we can do for you, Clara; I know she was so fond of flowers, she would be pleased if she could see them.”  I cared not for the flowers, I only knew that loving heart was stilled in death, and I was left alone; with an effort, I said, “Lorelle will never know a truer friend than she who lies here.”  My tears unbidden flow; why do I go back in memory to those sorrowful days?  I know she is happy now.  Let me draw the veil of charity over the past with all its troubles, remembering only the many acts of kindness done for us by our friends at that time.