“But,” said the mother, “you might have let me share your sorrow.” “O, no, good mother,” replied he, “that could not be. Sorrow cannot be divided, shared, sold or given away. I might have told you and a hundred others, and you would have felt grieved and sympathized with me, but my sorrow would not have been diminished in the least so it was better for me to carry my own burdens than to have troubled you.” Brave as a man, as he was a brave boy. The days passed only too quickly, full of delightful enjoyment to me, and I think, as well to them, and my friends took their departure. Then I was lonely and sad, yet happy in this renewal of our old friendship, and the addition of a new acquaintance, the charming mother of Johnny. I have given this account of their visit for several reasons, first because of the old friendship; then for the delight I had in their company, but most of all because of the admiration I had for this loving couple, mother and son. As the mother said, they were one. She had lived for her son, he for his mother, and thus their lives were blended together. First of all, she was so pure. This was my first impression, and increased the more I saw of her, not from any special thing she said or did, but purity seemed to be in her every feature, in her dress, her walk, her conversation, the tone of her voice. She seemed to be made of sweetness and light, not simply of the soft and mellow kind, for she had her opinions, which she dared to defend with energy, yet a sense of goodness seemed to rule her. Such a life is a perpetual prayer. She had a great mind in her little body, and was not willing to let it sleep and rest. It was evident that she had kept up with her son in his reading, with his thoughts and his business, so she could be his close companion. There was scarcely a topic in our conversation, on which she could not converse with excellent sense, and with flashes of wit and fun. On some subjects her womanly instinct seemed to outrun our slow, plodding masculine thoughts. I have read somewhere a criticism on woman, and probably a just one; that many of them, on becoming married, seem to think that they have reached the summit of their lives, and lose all their former pride of appearance, stop reading and thinking, and so cease to be companions of their husbands and older children, and remain as common useful articles of house furniture. It was not so with this mother. To her elasticity of youth in body and mind, she had added the culture and refinement of years, while her body seemed strengthened and matured through her mental activity.