travels; romance will not be lacking; here and there the faces of famous men and women will, for a moment, appear; across the bloom of youth and hope will fall the shadows of war. All these realities will be presented in the colors of truth. But something deeper than an interest in connected links of a story is here to be found; it shall be our endeavor to discover the causes that lead to wider activities.

In endeavoring to divine, and clearly reveal, the motives that prompt action, we shall try to hold ourselves detached from the subject, finding no fault, and indulging in no encomium, defining beliefs and ambitions, not because they are ours, but because they were those of Mattie Myers, and, to understand her, one must understand them.

It will not be sufficient to consider her work, and the opinions of those who knew her, in order to reach the desired result. As far as possible, she shall speak out herself, out of her old diaries and the abundance of her letters. As her biographer, I would be but the setting to uphold the gem, that it may shine by its own light. And yet, there is no life whose story may be fully understood, unless a knowledge is gained of those other lives with which it comes in contact. In the present story, this truth is of wider significance than one finds in the lives of the majority. Here will be painted scenes as widely separated as Kentucky, Missouri, Texas, Australia, England, and the Levant.

THE STORY OF A LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

A KENTUCKY GIRL

"I don't believe she's going to live long," said the black nurse, mournfully shaking her head. "She's so thin and weak, and she cries nearly every night!"

The nurse was speaking of little Mattie Myers, who lived in the old Kentucky town of Stanford. The child was seldom to be seen engaged in those sports natural to children. She was grave, quiet, thoughtful. Her one amusement was found in her family of dolls; she was always their teacher, and they were daily going to school to her. For companions, she chose those who were much older than herself, and she would sit by the hour, soberly listening to theological discussion, weighing, in her infant mind, the arguments of learned men.

Her mother was dead, but Mattie could recall her sympathetic touch, and tender smile. It seemed to her that out of the shadow of death her life had emerged, to be clouded by new losses. One after the other, her two sisters were taken from her. Then the brother, who was her only intimate companion, went to another town to teach school. Mattie found herself the only young person in the large house of her wealthy father.

Of course she received all care; her slightest wishes were granted; the love of her widowed father was doubly hers, because of his bereavements. But the little girl was very lonely. When the flowers sent forth their perfume on the warm Kentucky breezes, she was reminded of three graves; and when the sunshine gilded the level pike leading toward Lancaster, she felt as if her brother Joe were calling her to come and nestle against his loving breast.

At every turn, the big house in Stanford reminded her of her mother's footsteps, her sisters' voices forever hushed, and that beloved brother from whom, for the first time, she found herself separated. Is it a wonder that the nights often witnessed her tears? Is it strange that there should have grown up within her, the intense desire to go to her brother? She made this wish known to her father, and her brother seconded her in the plan. Why not stay with Joe during the school year? Then they could spend the vacations at home, together.

Henry Myers, the wealthy and influential father, considered this proposition. He was an ambitious man. He had spared no expense in giving his son a thorough education. He was pleased, now, to find that little Mattie should show a disposition for learning. She was only eight years old, and yet he felt that, in the companionship of her brother, she would find ample protection. Moreover, while a child of eight is usually no fit inmate of a boarding-school, and while it is not best to send one so young, to dwell among strangers, Mattie was no ordinary child.

Nor was her mother an ordinary woman. Mary Burdette possessed a cultured and original mind, related in sympathies to that of her cousin who is known to the world, in the familiarity of affection, as "Bob Burdette." When Mrs. Mary Burdette Myers died, it was supposed that Mattie was too young to appreciate her loss. She could not, of course, appraise that loss at its full value, but its shadow rested upon her girlhood. This death, and that of her sisters, had rendered her serious, had brought enforced reflections upon death and immortality. The letters that she wrote, almost to the days of maturity, are found inclosed in faded little envelopes, which show the black band of mourning.

No, there was no danger in sending Mattie to Lancaster where brother Joe would be her protector. Her father consented.

The ambition to teach school, entertained by one who was a man of means, was a rare thing in the South before the Civil War; or, at any rate, it was rare in Kentucky. Yet that was the ambition of Joe Myers, and to this ambition he devoted his life. He was a natural teacher, and Mattie, who admired him above all others, imitated him in all things. What he liked, she liked, and what he wanted to do, she meant to do. The young man was very fond of music—so was his little sister. He opened up an academy at Lancaster—Mattie established her first school, as we have seen—a college of dolls.

When at last it was decided that Mattie should go to Joe, great was her joy. Some of those few golden hours of childhood, which she afterward recalled, came to her then. She went—the pike had not called in vain—but she did not leave her dolls at home. She boarded with her brother Joe Myers, and her education began in earnest.

"I was only eight," she afterwards said, "when I entered a boarding school; my whole family of dolls matriculated with me."

Lancaster and Stanford were not far apart, though in different counties. It was a short journey to go home Friday evening, and visit there until Monday morning. But of course these visits were not of weekly occurrence.

There was Joe to stay with, and these two never tired of each other's companionship. In the twilight-hours, the young teacher would play his flute, and the little girl would sit listening with all her soul, translating his music into definite resolves. Just as he had given his life to teaching, so would she. She declared her purpose at that age of eight. She would teach a school—a school for girls. It was a purpose she never changed.

Thus the years passed by, in sweet companionship with her brother during the school months, and with the reunited family every summer. Mattie did not grow strong. The black nurse still shook her head. "We never thought she would live!" she often declared, in after years.

In the meantime, Mattie still associated with those who were much older than herself, still found pleasure in discussion of religious differences. We shall find her, at the age of eighteen, saying that most of her friends are married or dead, thus showing that no intimacies existed between herself and girls of her own age.

At twelve, a change came into her life. So thoroughly had she pursued her studies at Lancaster, that it was determined to send her away to college. At that time, the strongest college for girls of her father's