After a few days of stay with friends and relations--(for we were an old Knickerbocker family, and it was in my early childhood that grandfather had transplanted us to Wayne County, which was to us then almost the far West, with its deserted wigwams and wandering Indian hunters)--we settled for a short time in a house temporarily taken, till the one found for me by a good friend, Mr. Sweet, should be ready. I established myself in West 26th Street, in a large and handsome brown stone front, in a neighborhood then of first-rate excellence, in which I resided for two years. From that house I removed to 15th Street, next door to Irving Place; from which, after a residence of a year, I removed, by advice of my friends, to No. 1 Ludlow Place, which I left only to go to my husband's home in West 37th Street, on my marriage, in 1858, which epoch was also the close of my career of public mediumship. Twenty-six years have now elapsed from that most blessed of days to this. Our home has been indeed a happy one. Though I have lost children, it has never been that which Victor Hugo had not the heart to wish for his worst enemy, a house without a child. Indeed, it has usually been full of them. I am still "mother," and my husband "father," to a well-beloved little crowd who are the same to us as our very own, and by whom I am indiscriminately called "Aunt Leah" and "Ma." And what with relatives, and friends on visits, and nephews and nieces of whose education we have taken charge, for the better advantages of New York, it has been one pretty full of visible inmates, as well as those who are not the less real because invisible. And these latter are ever ready to respond, with the dear familiar raps and alphabet, to our desire to communicate with them; to say nothing of occasional manifestations in other ways, of their presence with us. An earnest thought or request rarely fails to bring our unseen ones.