" But at another time she said, "To think of the money I
make by writing this trash, while my father's, words of immortal wisdom
only bring him a little celebrity." She honored her father, and lived
more for him than for anybody else, including herself.
Her journey through Europe was like a triumphal procession. Doors were
opened to her everywhere; not the palace of the Rothschilds or the
apartments of the ex-Queen of Naples, but those of distinguished artists
and literary people. Mr. Healy, the best American painter in Rome,
requested permission to paint her portrait. This she consented to, and
was rather surprised when he afterwards presented it to her. "I
wondered," she said while we were looking at the picture, "what was
going to come next; when one day Mr. Healy's daughter appeared with a
novel in manuscript which she wished I would give an opinion of. I found
it to be good and sent it to my London publisher, who happily published
it for her." Posterity ought to be grateful for Healy's little
manoeuvre.
[Illustration: THE ALCOTT HOUSE.]
The same attentions followed her on her return to Boston; but she did
not care for them. She had learned that the satisfaction of good work is
the only one which we never have to regret. She was busy with plans for
the future, considering especially how she might order and arrange her
affairs for the benefit of her family.
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