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 It was a pleasant contrast to her former life when she went to reside in Mrs. Claremont's family, and one that fostered the ideal element of her nature which sought expression in writing. Sympathizing through her own experience with those sensitive, bleeding spirits that dot here and there the pathway of life, lacking the strength to buffet its stormy waves and faint by the wayside, whom we tread on daily without knowing it, and the world passes by as unworthy of notice because it cannot appreciate the wealth of soul, nor discern the delicate fibres quivering beneath the unprepossessing exterior, she wished to plead their cause, but, unfortunately, lack of the power of expression so dwarfed the natural language of the soul as to rob it of its vitality in the attempt to give it utterance. At length she hit on the idea of writing a novel which furnished amusement enough for Kate, who had no sympathy with abstract theories and metaphysical speculation, and yet liked to hear Milly's views, which gave her something to criticize and dissect. Enjoying new ideas which she chose to embellish in her own careless style, her impulses came out in a rough diamond way; sparkling, uncouth, yet vigorous and racy. Above all was that dominant love of fun which appropriated every thing to its service, no matter how serious, with which was mingled no small share of good sense.

"You write a novel!" said she, "I should as soon think of Walter settin' himself up for a stage' player, or Miss Rosalind as a pattern young miss in a coquettin' shop. You'd make it as solemn as a fresh made widder with borrowed weeds and onions