She is a young woman of great resolution, and somehow we accomplished the job. We took an apartment in Washington Square and a studio in the old Stokes Building. The latter Caroline arranged charmingly, after the fashion of artists. Here we received our friends. I enjoyed this glimpse into the art world and managed to pick up a few gleanings of knowledge. It was essential, however, that daughter’s painting should help with the bread and butter, so “one-man shows” became a part of my education. She had an exhibition at the rooms of the Civic League in New York, and two in successive summers, at houses lent us for the purpose, in Newport. Here we had more friends than in the great city, and we had the powerful assistance of sister Maud, ever generous in helping others. Many pictures were sold, to our joy, though I sometimes hated to part with them. A little maternal partiality no doubt entered into this affection for my daughter’s paintings. But they certainly had charm, especially when a number were gathered together. My mother was still living and the summer studio was under her hospitable roof at “Oak Glen.” Here it was a great pleasure to see the work grow under Caroline’s hands and to recognize the familiar and beloved island landscape, somewhat disguised by the requirements of art. Here, too, she painted the portrait of her grandmother, studying closely the ever-changing face and sparing her subject as much as possible the tedium of sittings. A studio is the most delightful place in the world to those in sympathy with the artist. Here we have beauty, life, growth, creation, and, where a painter is concerned, the warmth and joy of color! Those were happy days, yet there were moments when I remembered that canvases and paints are dead things, compared with living human companionship. Therefore, when my daughter became engaged to be married to the Rev. Hugh Birckhead I knew that she had chosen wisely. Doubtless to all mothers the marriage of an only daughter, even under the very brightest auspices, is an occasion of mingled joy and sorrow. We rejoice at the new happiness; we regret the ending of the old home life and intimate companionship. In the midst of the strange confusion of feeling, on the great day, I did not fail to observe the gallant bearing of the groom as he came down the chancel steps to meet the bride, who looked her very best. Yet I was very near to tears. All that saved me from them was the comic look of a chorister marching in the wedding procession, a stout, short man with a round face and an open mouth that looked like the letter O. Since that time I have never _quite_ liked Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Without my daughter’s companionship life proved lonely. After a year of it the youngest son came to his mother’s rescue, proposing that we should keep house together, at High Bridge, New Jersey, where his work was.