They brought the table to my bedside; I kept my eyes closed; I received the bread from the hand of one son, and the wine from the hand of the other.  I tasted it, and my fast was broken.  I discovered, to my great surprise, it was only toast and tea.  They had improved upon my wish, and thought to feed me, their poor wasted mother.  They dressed me for the journey; I would not assist them any; they had not obeyed my wish to be left alone in my room all winter; so, when I yielded to them, I left all for them to do; the only thing I did myself was to take from the closet this grey flannel dress—­I had made it for traveling, before I left Lowell for Old Orchard.  They did not seem to know what they were doing.  I had two bonnets, but they never mentioned them, as I remember.  They left my night-cap on, and tied a silk handkerchief over it.  They carried me down stairs in their arms, and lifted me in the coach.  After we were on our way in the cars, I found my hair was hanging down my back; I had nothing to fasten it up with, and I arranged the handkerchief to cover it.  I began to feel happy with the thought of going home.  I tried to cheer them, and they could not help smiling at me.  I wondered they were not ashamed of me, I looked so badly.  I told them not to call me mother, to say I was old Mrs. Sinnett; that they were bringing me home to my friends.

Poor boys, I wonder if they remember that journey in the cars as I do.  At my request, Tom brought me a goblet of milk, at two stopping places, and when I found they had brought me to an Asylum I felt no fear; I thought I had only to ask and receive what I needed.  I knew they thought me crazy, so I would not bid them good-bye, when they left me, but concluded to play lunatic.  I refused to kiss Lewis when he left me, that dear boy who had watched over me so faithfully, carrying me in his arms from one car to the other.  When we changed cars, he placed me in a Pullman car, and I thought I was safely hidden from something, I knew not what.  I only know I was so happy while I was with my sons; nothing troubled me.  I sang and chatted to Lewis; he would not leave me a moment; he kneeled beside my berth, and I called him my best of sons, and smoothed his hair with my hand.  All my journey through I heard the voice of angels whispering to me, “Hold on by the hand of your sons; keep them with you and you will be safe; they are your sons, they are the sons of God,”—­and they are.  All who do their duty as they were doing, to the best of their ability, are the children of God; for, if we do the best we can, angels can do no more.

I thought I was perfectly safe here, and if the Doctor had given me the food which should be given to an invalid, or if he had granted any requests I made to him in a reasonable manner, I should not have been prompted to write these lines or recall those memories of the past.

One thought brings another.  When, on the morning after my arrival, I begged for milk and biscuit, they refused, and then brought a bowl of common looking soup with black looking bakers’ bread.  I refused to eat it; if it had been beef tea with soda biscuit in it, I would have taken it myself.  They did not live to coax crazy people.  Mrs. Mills called in her help, and it did not need many, I was so weak; they held me back, and she stuffed the soup down my throat.