"
"Indeed, I did," answered the mother, "but I never could find
expression for it. I was made just to sing, I often think, but I
never had the courage to sing in public. But I did want to write
poetry, and now you, dear, are doing it for me. How proud your
father would have been of you!"
"Oh, he knows! I'm sure he knows all that I have written," answered
the girl, with the sublime faith that youth has in its own
convictions. "And if you like my verses, Marmee, I am sure he does,
for he knows."
"Perhaps," murmured the older woman. "I often feel that he is very
near to us. I never have felt that he is really gone very far away
from me."
"Poor little Marmee!" the girl would say to herself. "She misses him
yet. I believe she will always miss him."
Which was the truth. She saw constantly his likeness in all her
children, bits of his character, shades of his disposition,
reflections of his gifts and talents, hints of his bravery, and she
always spoke of these with a commending air, as though they were
characteristics to be cultivated, to be valued and fostered.
At first her fear of leaving her children, even to join him, was
evident, she so believed in a mother's care and love being a
necessity to a child.
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