with the readiness of a jocular and jeering temperament. He had an able second in all his jests and gibes in the person of a cousin, a gay-hearted, mirth-loving girl, given to mimicry. Between them they tormented the patient mother with a burlesque of her work.
Mary Baker was never a witness of these hilarious scenes. She kept rather strict hours at her desk, varying her work with recreation of a suitable nature. She lived for nearly two years in this village surrounded with wooded hills. She knew well its quiet walks and inspiring vistas. In her room she wrote assiduously and spent many hours in meditation and prayer. Her relations with the two children living at home, as well as with the father and mother, were cordial and agreeable. Far from being a recluse, she welcomed the children to her room when not engaged with her writing, and made their joys and sorrows her own. The daughter Lucy was particularly devoted to her.
“I loved her,” Lucy Wentworth told the author, “because she made me love her. She was beautiful and had a good influence over me. I used to be with her every minute that she was not writing or otherwise engaged. And I was very jealous of her book. We talked and read together and took long walks in the country. I idolized her and really suffered when she locked her door to work and would not let me come to her. After she had worked for hours she always relaxed and threw off her seriousness. Then she would admit us, my brother Charles and me, and sometimes a school friend of Charles. The
