She broke all down at that, and, dear me! they almost had a scene in spite of themselves. For O, she had always known what a little goose she was; and Pauline never meant any harm, and how handsome she was, you know! only _she_ didn't have three babies to look after, nor a snubbed nose either, and the sachet powder was only American, and the very servants knew, and, O Myron! she _had_ wanted to be dead so long, and then-- "Harrie!" said the Doctor, at his wit's end, "this will never do in the world. I believe--I declare!--Miss Hannah!--I believe I must send you to bed." "And then I'm SUCH a little skeleton!" finished Harrie, royally, with a great gulp. Dr. Sharpe gathered the little skeleton all into a heap in his arms,--it was a very funny heap, by the way, but that doesn't matter,--and to the best of my knowledge and belief he cried just about as hard as she did. The Tenth of January. The city of Lawrence is unique in its way. For simooms that scorch you and tempests that freeze; for sand-heaps and sand-hillocks and sand-roads; for men digging sand, for women shaking off sand, for minute boys crawling in sand; for sand in the church-slips and the gingerbread-windows, for sand in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, down your neck? up your sleeves, under your _chignon_, down your throat; for unexpected corners where tornadoes lie in wait; for "bleak, uncomforted" sidewalks, where they chase you, dog you, confront you, strangle you, twist you, blind you, turn your umbrella wrong side out; for "dimmykhrats" and bad ice-cream; for unutterable circus-bills and religious tea-parties; for uncleared ruins, and mills that spring up in a night; for jaded faces and busy feet; for an air of youth and incompleteness at which you laugh, and a consciousness of growth and greatness which you respect,--it-- I believe, when I commenced that sentence, I intended to say that it would be difficult to find Lawrence's equal. Of the twenty-five thousand souls who inhabit that city, ten thousand are operatives in the factories. Of these ten thousand two thirds are girls. These pages are written as one sets a bit of marble to mark a mound. I linger over them as we linger beside the grave of one who sleeps well; half sadly, half gladly,--more gladly than sadly,--but hushed.