She wears a nice white cap, has smooth grey hair, and soft dove's eyes like yours, and I sometimes look at her and think of you till her loud voice breaks forth in fierce scolding, and then I think of Mrs. Beelzebub. She sits in an immense room, in the centre of the almshouse proper, and ensconced in her armchair, with feet propped on a velvet footstool, she dispenses orders from morning to night, gives out clothing, raves at the paupers, and dooms the refractory ones to a shower-bath. She is a Quaker—very pious, I believe—attends yearly meeting regularly, and has an Episcopal minister for her only son; she is one of the 'strong-minded women,' and manages matters to the entire satisfaction of the committee. I like to talk with her occasionally, for she is shrewd and has seen much of life through dark spectacles.
What a contrast she is to our head physician! When I first saw Dr. Benedict I thought him the very loveliest man the Almighty ever created, and I still preserve my opinion; the tears come into his eyes as he bends down to soothe some dying woman, and his voice is as gentle, his touch as kind to each patient as if she were his sister. Then he is as truthful, energetic, and spirited as he is kind, so, of course, we are very good friends, though we don't see much of each other.
I often send a thought to Cincinnati as I roam through the wards and imagine our contrasted employments; all letters unite in calling you the best, the most cheerful, most indefatigable mother that ever did exist. 'All her daughters praise her, and her sons call her blessed.' How I wish you could pay me another visit this summer! Well, dear mother, Heaven bless you—write to me sometime.
Your loving physician, E.
At that time, and for many years after, the sub-
