She could not sew long without pressing her hand on her aching side, and then Peggy would draw her work gently from her with her large, kind hand, make her lie down and rest, or walk out in the fresh air, till the waxen hue was enlivened on her pallid cheek.

She would urge her to go into the garden and gather flowers for Gabriella, "because the poor child loved so to see them in the room." We had a sweet little garden, where Peggy delved at early sunrise and evening twilight.

Without ever seeming hurried or overtasked, she accomplished every thing.

We had the earliest vegetables, and the latest.

We had fruit, we had flowers, all the result of Peggy's untiring, providing hand.