After Miss Larcom’s return from the West, the friendship with the Whittiers ripened and became a factor in her life. The gentle sweetness of the poet’s sister Elizabeth soon won its way to her heart, and the strength of the man greatly impressed her. They grew very fond of her, and took an interest in her literary work. The attachment that Elizabeth formed for her was based on a most genuine love. In one of her letters she wrote, “Dear, dear Lucy,--Let me thank thee for all thy love. I can never tell thee how sweet it has been to me. I could have cried to think of thy loving care for me.” Again:--“I wish I could see thee oftener. I need thee. I feel a little more rest with thee than with most. Thou hast done me good since I first knew thee.” The two lives mingled and blended in the contact of companionship, for refinement of feeling, delicacy of thought, and strength of moral purpose, were characteristic of both. Mr. Whittier found her companionable, and admired her sincerity and poetical ability, which he recognized very early. It was one of Miss Larcom’s greatest pleasures, while at Norton, to run off and spend a few days at Amesbury in the household that she loved. What Mr. Whittier said, she knew to be true,--“Thee will always find the latchstring out;” and when away, she knew she was remembered, for Elizabeth sent her word that “Greenleaf has just filled thy blue and gold vase with the yellowest of flowers.” Here is a letter to her, from Mr. Whittier, as early as 1853. September 3, 1853. MY DEAR FRIEND,--I thank thee for thy note. The personal allusion would be flattering enough, did I not know that it originated in a sad misconception and overestimate of one who knows himself to be “no better than he should be.” It is a way we have. We are continually investing somebody or other with whatever is best in ourselves. It does not follow that the objects themselves are worth much. The vines of our fancy often drape the ugliest stumps in the whole forest. I am anxious to see thy little book in print.[5] Whatever may be its fate with the public at large, I feel quite sure it will give thee a place in the best minds and hearts. The best kind of fame, after all. Thy friend, J. G. WHITTIER. At Mr. Whittier’s suggestion, she used to submit her work to him for criticism; and he always indicated what he considered faulty, in rhyme or metre. This practical training in the art of verse-making was valuable to her. She continued it for many years until she felt that she ought to be more self-reliant. Then she printed without consulting him, and, at first, he reproved her for it. “But,” she said, “you have taught me all that I ought to ask: why should I remain a burden on you? Why should I always write with you holding my hand? My conscience and my pride rebel. I will be myself, faults and all.”