had had a short illness, there had been a brief time of acute
suffering, then all was over. This was my first great sorrow--my
first personal experience with death.

How shall I write of my mother? She is so near to me that it
almost seems indelicate to speak of her.

For a long time I regarded my little sister as an intruder. I
knew that I had ceased to be my mother's only darling, and the
thought filled me with jealousy. She sat in my mother's lap
constantly, where I used to sit, and seemed to take up all her
care and time. One day something happened which seemed to me to
be adding insult to injury.

At that time I had a much-petted, much-abused doll, which I
afterward named Nancy. She was, alas, the helpless victim of my
outbursts of temper and of affection, so that she became much the
worse for wear. I had dolls which talked, and cried, and opened
and shut their eyes; yet I never loved one of them as I loved
poor Nancy. She had a cradle, and I often spent an hour or more
rocking her. I guarded both doll and cradle with the most jealous
care; but once I discovered my little sister sleeping peacefully
in the cradle. At this presumption on the part of one to whom as
yet no tie of love bound me I grew angry. I rushed upon the
cradle and over-turned it, and the baby might have been killed
had my mother not caught her as she fell. Thus it is that when we
walk in the valley of twofold solitude we know little of the
tender affections that grow out of endearing words and actions
and companionship. But afterward, when I was restored to my human
heritage, Mildred and I grew into each other's hearts, so that we