Miss Ward,--she was always called Miss Ward, poor little dear! and her dolls were taken away from her when she was only nine years old, that she might better feel the dignity of her position!--Miss Ward rebuked the little sisters, and bade them lay aside their foolish toys and improve their minds by composing poetry. Louisa shook her black curls, and would not,--moreover, did not, being herself a child of some firmness. But little sweet Annie would try, to please Sister Julia; and after much thought and labor she produced the following pious effusion:-- “He feeds the ravens when they call, And stands them in a pleasant hall.” I never can recall these lines without having an instant vision of a pillared hall, fair and [Illustration: JULIA WARD.] stately, with ravens standing in niches along the sides, between the marble columns! So this maiden, Julia, grew up to womanhood, dreamy and absent, absorbed in severe study and composition, yet always ready with the brilliant flashes of her wit, which broke like sunbeams through the mist of dreams. She was very fair to look upon. No one now pitied her for the glorious crown of red-gold hair, which set off the rose and ivory of her matchless complexion; every one recognized and acknowledged in her “stately Julia, queen of all.” Once, while on a visit to Boston, Julia heard the wonderful story of Laura Bridgman, who had just been led out of darkness into the light of life and joy by a certain Dr. Howe, a man of whom people spoke as a modern paladin of romance, a Roland or Bayard. She saw him, and felt at once that he was the most remarkable man she had ever known. He, on his part, saw a youthful prophetess, radiant and inspired, crowned with golden hair. Acquaintance ripened into friendship, friendship into love; and so it happened that, in the year 1843, Samuel G. Howe and Julia Ward were married. The next chapter shall tell you of Julia Ward Howe, as we, her children, have known her. CHAPTER VII. OUR MOTHER. (MRS JULIA WARD HOWE.) Our mother’s story should be sung rather than said, so much has music to do with it. My earliest recollection of my mother is of her standing by the piano in the great dining-room, dressed in black velvet, with her beautiful neck and arms bare, and singing to us. Her voice was a very rare and perfect one, we have since learned; we knew then only that we did not care to hear any one else sing when we might hear her. The time for singing was at twilight, when the dancing was over, and we gathered breathless and exhausted about the piano for the last and greatest treat. Then the beautiful voice would break out, and flood the room with melody, and fill our childish hearts with almost painful rapture. Our mother knew all the songs in the world,--that was our firm belief. Certainly we never found an end to her repertory.