ABSTRACT
Mary Harrison (Mary Howitt's niece) came to see me. I delight in my friends seeing my home. I triumph in its growing comfort, order, and beauty, and yet I seemed, when the time came, to see it as compared with what it should be, not with what it has been. So much better than three years ago. Yes, but should it not be? Everything one feels is imperfect. Thou would grieve if thou could see it, only thou would have to remember that my hands have to do many things for which they were not trained, and have little time for doing all that wants doing and that others can't do.
