But there was, all this time, another side to John Gray’s life, which I saw, and Emma Long did not see.  By every steamer came packages of the most marvelous letters from Ellen:  letters to us all; but for John, a diary of every hour of her life.  Each night she spent two hours in writing out the record of the day.  I have never seen letters which so reproduced the atmosphere of the day, the scene, the heart.  They were brilliant and effective to a degree that utterly astonished me; but they were also ineffably tender and loving, and so natural in their every word, that it was like seeing Ellen face to face to read them.  At first John did not show them even to me; but soon he began to say, “These are too rare to be kept to myself; I must just read you this account;” or, “Here is a page I must read,” until it at last became his habit to read them aloud in the evenings to the family, and even to more intimate friends who chanced to be with us.  He grew proud beyond expression of Ellen’s talent for writing; and well he might.  No one who listened to them but exclaimed, “There never were such letters before!” I think there never were.  And I alone knew the secret of them.

But these long, brilliant letters were not all.  In every mail came also packages for Alice—­secret, mysterious things which nobody could see, but which proved to be sometimes small notes, to be given to papa at unexpected times and places; sometimes little fancy articles, as a pen-wiper, or a cigar-case, half worked by Ellen, to be finished by Alice, and given to papa on some especial day, the significance of which “only mamma knows;” sometimes a pressed flower, which was to be put by papa’s plate at breakfast, or put in papa’s button-hole as he went out in the morning.  I was more and more lost in astonishment at the subtle and boundless art of love which could so contrive to reach across an ocean, and surround a man’s daily life with its expression.  There were also in every package, letters to John from all the children:  even the baby’s little hand was guided to write by every mail, “Dear papa, I love you just as much as all the rest do!” or, “Dear papa, I want you to toss me up!” More than once I saw tears roll down John’s face in spite of him, as he slowly deciphered these illegible little scrawls.  The older children’s notes were vivid and loving like their mother’s.  It was evident that they were having a season of royal delight in their journey, but also evident that their thoughts and their longings were constantly reverting to papa.  How much Ellen really indited of these apparently spontaneous letters I do not know; but no doubt their tone was in part created by her.  They showed, even more than did her own letters, that papa was still the centre of the family life.  No sight was seen without the wish—­“Oh, if papa were here!” and even little Mary, aged five, was making a collection of pressed leaves for papa, from all the places they visited.  Louise had already great talent for