like; I miss Anna, my one bosom friend and comforter.

1854.--_Pinckney Street_.--I have neglected my journal for months, so
must write it up. School for me month after month. Mother busy with
boarders and sewing. Father doing as well as a philosopher can in a
money-loving world. Anna at S.

I earned a good deal by sewing in the evening when my day's work was
done.

In February father came home. Paid his way, but no more. A dramatic
scene when he arrived in the night. We were waked by hearing the bell.
Mother flew down, crying "My husband!" We rushed after, and five white
figures embraced the half-frozen wanderer who came in hungry, tired,
cold, and disappointed, but smiling bravely and as serene as ever. We
fed and warmed and brooded over him, longing to ask if he had made any
money; but no one did till little May said, after he had told all the
pleasant things, "Well, did people pay you?" Then, with a queer look,
he opened his pocketbook and showed one dollar, saying with a smile
that made our eyes fill, "Only that! My overcoat was stolen, and I had
to buy a shawl. Many promises were not kept, and travelling is costly;
but I have opened the way, and another year shall do better."

I shall never forget how beautifully mother answered him, though the
dear, hopeful soul had built much on his success; but with a beaming
face she kissed him, saying, "I call that doing _very well_. Since you
are safely home, dear, we don't ask anything more."

Anna and I choked down our tears, and took a little lesson in real
love, which we never forgot, nor the look that the tired man and the