She made no offer of guidance,
and once or twice, in the succeeding year, alluded to the fact
that she 'had never helped me.' This was in a particular sense, of
course, for she helped all who knew her. She was interested in my
rough history, but could not be intimate, in any just sense, with
a soul so unbalanced, so inharmonious as mine then was. For my
part, I reverenced her. She was to me the embodiment of wisdom and
tenderness. I heard her converse, and, in the rich and varied
intonations of her voice, I recognized a being to whom every shade
of sentiment was familiar. She knew, if not by experience then by
no questionable intuition, how to interpret the inner life of
every man and woman; and, by interpreting, she could soothe and
strengthen. To her, psychology was an open book. When she came to
Brook Farm, it was my delight to wait on one so worthy of all
service,--to arrange her late breakfast in some remnants of
ancient China, and to save her, if it might be, some little
fatigue or annoyance, during each day. After a while she seemed to
lose sight of my more prominent and disagreeable peculiarities,
and treated me with affectionate regard.
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