Mrs. Dow did not give up her school until ten years after her marriage but she paid more attention in equally successful manner to housekeeping and social duties. Miss Miller, her friend from the days of the Wilmington School, was a constant and welcome guest. They loved books, they read and played together, they formed reading clubs to discuss works of importance and enjoyed poetry and good fiction. There were flashes of wit and a lightness of touch in Mrs. Dow's approach which were quite un-English, they may be attributed to her Larcom ancestry. The Larcoms were the La Combes of Languedoc, Huguenots who escaped to Wales, later moved to the Isle of Wight, and thence came to New England in the ship Hercules in 1640. The Obers came from Abbotsbury in England in early days, there is every reason to believe that they were also of Huguenot descent, by name "Auber," but this is not proved. The years passed rapidly, the quiet life at the Farms broken by little excursions to the theatre, concerts and visits to friends in Boston, with occasional trips to the White Mountains, New York and other places. There were endless interests and accomplishments and enjoyments. The World War brought grief and tragedy and abounding opportunity for sympathy and action; by no one was a saner interest taken in all its phases than by Mary Dow. As time passed and strength failed, Mrs. Dow never grew old; she joked about her "infirmities" but we did not see them. She mastered them and kept on in her lively active interests and duties to the end. During the winter of 1919-20 Mr. Dow was very ill. His wife nursed him with too great devotion and her strength gave out. Mercifully, she was spared a long illness, she died on the eleventh of June, 1920. Mr. Dow lingered until the sixteenth of September. This is the end of the story, or is it the beginning? OLD DAYS AT BEVERLY FARMS In writing these hap-hazard memories of the old days at Beverly Farms, I did not mean that they should be egotistical, but in spite of my good intentions I am afraid they are. You see it is almost impossible to separate yourself from your own memories! I throw myself upon the mercy of the Court! SUMMER OF 1916. We have a little Reading Club here at Beverly Farms. We read whatever happens to come up, from Chesterton's Dickens to "The Woman who was Tired to Death," interspersed with _real_ poems from "North of Boston." I belong to the Club. I am the oldest member of it, in fact, I am the oldest person in New England--on stormy days! When the weather is fine and the wind south-west, I am young enough to have infantile paralysis!