It was about that time that I met Mrs. Stowe very pleasantly at the house
of her daughter, Mrs. Allen, the wife of our Episcopal Rector. She was in
fascinating and talkative mood, she ^and fell into some talk of her prolonged
stay in Paris, and dwelt with great enthusiasm over the simple, but artistic
French plays, she constantly heard there, relating the plots of several,
describing the stage accessories, and the audiences; with much other inter-
esting detail. Later on in the evening she seemed a little more on
her native heath, as she told stories of old New England deacons, and their
slips into impulsive profanity, betrayed by native temper, not wholly
subdued - Yankee courting, and truth compels me to say, doing ^{hinting of} her own fam-
ily in fine caricature. I remember her distinctly as the light from the
chandelier ^fell upon her mobile face, her eyes twinkling with fun and merriment,
her forehead covered with soft brown curls, confined with a band of black
velvet, as seen in her pictures. I invited her to drive, a day or two after-
ward, and as I knew she was taciturn at times, I took no pains to draw her
out, allowing her the freedom of her larger nature undisturbed. The glory
of the October morning was too much for her - she clapped her hands in her
joy over the yellow maples, begging me to stop, now and then, that we might
sit longer in the golden glory. I never pass the little cemetary at So.
Amherst without recalling her interest in the clean, cared for, look of it,
quite insisting that the dove finishing one of the marble slabs at the top,
was a real feather bird, and she would only be convinced to the contrary
when I strolled through the grass and put my hand upon it. I realize more
and more as I have ^met persons who knew her much better than I, who described
her silent way, for the most part in society, that I was most fortunate
in her moods, for she talked constantly until we reached home. I can but