The last of that succession of bereavements which Mary was so early called to meet, and by which she was left as alone in the world, was now at hand. Since the death of her mother, in 1812, when there devolved mainly upon her, at the age of fourteen, the care of a dispirited and feeble father, and two aged grandparents, with other members of the family in a most trying condition, she had lived either in the sick-room, or in a press of domestic cares and business avocations. That these often made a severer demand upon her strength and patience, as well as affection, than any one knew at the time, or indeed ever knew, appears from various intimations in her letters and life. And all this was now to be brought to a crisis by the death of her _father_, leaving her without one near relative, or proper home. They had been boarding for some time in Dorchester, in the family of Mr. Barnard; where she received, as she says, "the greatest kindness and affection,"--and she felt the need of it. But let her give the circumstances in her own words. "_Boston, November 1, 1823._ "MY DEAR FRIEND:-- "I have been wishing this whole week to find time to write you, but it has been wholly impracticable. I have been in a perpetual agitation from sundry unexpected occurrences and continual interruptions from visitors. In fact, at no moment of my whole existence have I more wanted your counsel and sympathy. You know it is my lot to be assailed in more than one direction if in any, and it has been more remarkably the case now than ever.... I thank you most sincerely for your two good letters; it was more than I dared expect, and it was a cordial to me to receive the kind expression of your sympathy, though I should not have doubted its existence without it. You say you 'have heard but little of me,' and it was scarcely possible that you should hear of the immediate circumstances that attended my trial. It was so sudden that I was, as it were, alone, and I have feared that, in indulging myself in writing to you of it, I should give way too far, and distress and weary you. I have realized more than I ever did in any of the various changes I have met with, that 'the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb,' and even in the very extremity of trial we can be strengthened to support all with calmness.