During this visit the Camlet cloak was brought out, and Aunt Phebe and I together ripped out the sleeves. She said they would make a splendid green stripe in a carpet, and in her quiet, careful way she sat removing their linings, when she started as if frightened, exclaiming: "Why, Emily, what on earth does this mean?" "What is it?" I said, and she held before me in her hand a long brown paper, and within its folds were two bills of equal denomination. "I wonder if this one has anything in it?" I said, and even as I said it my fingers came upon a similarly folded paper, and two more bills were brought to light. They were a valuable gift, and Aunt Phebe's gratitude gave vent in a forcible way, I knew, for Aunt Hildy told me afterward she thanked her "e'en a'most to death." I could hardly wait to rip the body of the cloak, and my surprise was unbounded when I discovered its contents. There were two sums of money left in trust with us, and in her dear, good way she had made us wondrously grateful to her for the faith she had reposed in us; a deed of some of her land, which the street had cut into, which she desired us to use for some one who was needy, unless we ourselves needed it; and in the last sentences of her message to us she said: "If ever anybody belongin' to me comes in your path, give 'em a lift. I can trust you to do it, and the Lord will spare your lives, I know. Don't tell any livin' soul, Emily." This was a sacred message to both Louis and myself, and I should feel it sacrilege to write it all out here, even though I much desire to. Dear Aunt Hildy! when we essayed to thank her, she said: "There, there, don't say a word; I've allus said I'd be my own executioner, (I did not correct her mistake), and I know that's the way. You see, some day I'll go out like a candle, for all my mother's folks died that way, so I want to be ready. The other side of the house live longer, more pity for it too. They've handed down more trouble than you know, but I aint like one of 'em; it's my mother I belong to." It seemed to me now that the years went like days and the first five after our marriage, that ended with the summer of 1851, were filled for the most part with pleasant cares. I was still my mother's girl, and helped about the house as always before. Of course, some sorrows came to us in these years, for changes cannot be perfectly like clear glass. Hal and Mary had held to their hearts one beautiful Baby blossom, who only lived four months to cheer them, and then passed from their brooding tenderness on to the other side. We sorrowed for this, and "Love's Fawn" had pale cheeks for a long time. Hal feared she would follow her child, and it might have been had not a somewhat necessary journey across the Atlantic brought great benefit to her.