While making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day
accompanied my friend and me through the graveyard. She examined
one stone after another, and seemed pleased when she could
decipher a name. She smelt of the flowers, but showed no desire
to pluck them; and, when I gathered a few for her, she refused to
have them pinned on her dress. When her attention was drawn to a
marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE in relief, she
dropped upon the ground as though looking for something, then
turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "Were is
poor little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she persisted.
Turning to my friend, she asked, "Did you cry loud for poor
little Florence?" Then she added: "I think she is very dead. Who
put her in big hole?" As she continued to ask these distressing
questions, we left the cemetery. Florence was the daughter of my
friend, and was a young lady at the time of her death; but Helen
had been told nothing about her, nor did she even know that my
friend had had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed and
carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any
other gift. On her return to the house after her visit to the
cemetery, she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and
carried them to my friend, saying, "They are poor little
Florence's." This was true, although we were at a loss to
understand how she guessed it. A letter written to her mother in
the course of the following week gave an account of her
impression in her own words:

"I put my little babies to sleep in Florence's little bed, and I
take them to ride in her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead.
She was very sick and died. Mrs. H. did cry loud for her dear
little child. She got in the ground, and she is very dirty, and