NOTEBOOK

dining-table—a tortoise-shell cat—a striking picture. I
called Susy's attention to it and was astonished to find
that she was not able to see it.

In the other notebook1 I have it wrong. Susy put out
her hand and stroked Katy's face and said—"Mamma."
That was the last time she spoke in this life. Poor trou-
bled heart. It turned for help and comfort in its latest con-
sciousness to the refuge that had never failed it. If any-
thing could comfort Livy, it would be the thought that
she was the last image that drifted across the poor child's
perishing mind and her name the last utterance that fell
from the dying lips.

She was a poet—a poet whose song died unsung.

Every now and then in her vivacious talk she threw
out phrases of such admirable grace and force, such pre-
cision of form, that they thrilled through one's conscious-
ness like the passage of the electric spark.

He contemplated doing a small book about
Susy, for private circulation. From time to time
he wrote chapters of it, most of which were later
included in his Autobiography. The book itself
was never completed.

In this lament I wish to speak of my dead child as I
would speak to my family, to my most private friends,
without reserve, without conventions. For I am moved to
pour out only praises and endearments, only homage and
worship, over the dear and beautiful spirit that has van-
ished out of our life, and left it desolate. I wish to speak
of her as she appeared to us of the family, not as she
may, or may not, have appeared to others, even her com-
rades and intimates. To do this I must use franknesses of
appreciation which would be out of place if I were speak-

1 This notebook cannot be found.

3IS