No one ever saw him dull, or cross, or angry; he was liberal, generous, and beloved.
He worships my beautiful young mother, and he worshiped me.

Every one said I was the very image of mama.

I had the same golden hair and deep-blue eyes; the same shaped face and hands.

I remember that my mother--that sweet young mother--never walked steadily when she was out with me.

It was as though she could not help dancing like a child.
"Come along, baby darling," she would say to me, "let us get away from them all, and have a race." She called me "baby" until I was nearly six--for no other came to take my place.