A literary friend, to whom these verses were shown, felt some doubts as to Lucretia's being the real author of the stanzas, and suffered them to appear. The feeling that her rectitude was impeached made the sensitive girl actually ill; but a poetic remonstrance, which she prepared on the occasion, removed every doubt. From what has been before said, it must not be supposed that Lucretia was suffered to abandon herself to literary avocations. She had her prescribed tasks in sewing, and other customary employments, which she generally performed with fidelity and with wonderful celerity; sometimes, however, the voice of her muse struck her in the midst, and "enchanted she dropped each earthly care." One day, she had promised to do a certain piece of sewing, and had eagerly run for her basket; she was absent long, and on her return found that the work was done. "Where have you been, Lucretia?" said her mother, justly displeased. "O mamma," she replied, "I did forget; I am grieved. As I passed the window, I saw a solitary sweet pea. I thought they were all gone. This was alone. I ran to smell it, but, before I could reach it, a gust of wind broke the stem. I turned away disappointed, and was coming back to you; but as I passed the table, there stood the inkstand, and I forgot you." The following beautiful verses insured the forgiveness of her mother:-- "The last flower of the garden was blooming alone, The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone; Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined, And a few half-blown buds 'midst its leaves were entwined. Say, lovely one, say, why lingerest thou here? And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear? 'Tis the tear of the zephyr--for summer 'twas shed, And for all thy companions now withered and dead. Why lingerest thou here, when around thee are strown The flowers once so lovely, by autumn blasts blown? Say, why, sweetest floweret, the last of thy race, Why lingerest thou here the lone garden to grace? As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by winter's own hand, Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand; I hastened to raise it--the dew-drop had fled, And the once lovely flower was withered and dead."