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no apparent progress taught me to feel for
him.   He spoke with no spark of envy of Hart &
Mapother�s superior good fortune.  I produced the
rum (which he mixed for himself, weak and sweet)
and we sat till the dull, wet foggy day grew dark
outside my tunnelish attic-window.   Then he left, de-
signing to leave town to-morrow, dropping in at Royal�s,
Morrisania, on his way to West Chester.   I sat thin-
king of old Holtein days and of many things till
the supper-bell rang, and then worked all the evening.
  15.  Wednesday.  Letters from Fred & Edward Great-
batch or as they now write themselves � Bristol.  Thanks
for papers � talk of �crops� � they have rented, mutually,
75 acres, for next year and bought a team of 3 year-old
horses � are going to work on new railroad during the
winter � so end my �nervues,� as Fred spells it.   Good
fellows, I hope, and good to their mother.  She set �em
to writing, I know.   Poor half-sister Mary Anne,
out on that cursed Illinois prairie which killed your
husband, how you must think of kindly old England
sometimes! � of your youthful hopes, of pleasant Oxford
days, of Greatbatchs many, many shifts and trials �
of your weary four or five crossings of the pitiless Atlan-
tic which lies between you and the old home you will pro-
bably never see more!   Yours is a sad lot.  But
then you love your boys and want to be with them.  I
wish � oh! how I wish I were a success � not for
my own sake, altogether.   Daily necessity, the struggle