Caring little for the sports and pleasures of her age, it was Mary’s habit to shut herself up in her father’s study, and, seated upon the shelves, to read over and over again the biographies of great men and distinguished women. She kept in advance of all the school-girls meanwhile, and improved in her drawing during the hours stolen from her spinning-tasks and the duties involved in taking care of the other children. She entered now on the reading of the standard and classical works contained in her father’s library, and a new world seemed opening before her. Ambitious longings and dreams broke on the monotony of her lonely life. She resolved to become an artist like those persons of whom she had read, and compel appreciation from the world. But the mode of accomplishing her wishes perplexed her. She saw that it would be necessary to leave home and try her fortune among strangers; but she loved to picture the day when she would return, laden with honors and a rich reward for her labors--when her family would be proud of her success. When about fourteen, she determined to take the first step toward the goal she panted to reach. Secretly she quitted her home, taking with her only a change of dress, and set out to walk through the forest to Hopkinton, on the way to Concord, where she intended to take up her abode temporarily, to earn a little money by her labor, and then establish herself as an artist. She walked thirty miles that day, and very late at night came to a small house in the country, at which she stopped, requesting permission to warm and rest herself. The simple people appeared surprised to see so young a girl traveling alone and so far from home. They inquired into the particulars of her story with curious interest, and earnestly pressed her to stay all night. She consented, and supper was prepared for her, after which she went to sleep, wearied with the day’s fatiguing journey. On waking the next morning a strangely familiar voice struck her ear. She dressed hastily, and went down into the parlor, where she found her uncle, who had come that far in search of her. Both wept at the unexpected meeting; but when she had recovered from her confusion, Mary begged to be permitted to go on to Concord. This was decidedly refused, and, reluctant and mortified at the failure of her romantic enterprise, she was obliged to consent to be taken home. She was received with tears and embraces by her family, and no word of reproach, nor even a distant allusion to her disobedience, followed her attempt to escape from the restraint of parental authority. The family seemed to be sensible that she had been hardly dealt with; for the dreams of youthful hope have significance, and nature’s bent should not be too rudely thwarted. From this time more indulgence was shown to her frequent neglect of work in which she felt no pleasure, and to her devotion to books. She engaged in her studies more ardently than ever.