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New York and
Charleston, during which she and her husband and daughters suffered so much that they were ready to forswear the sea forever.
The great waves as they rushed, boiling and seething, past would peer in at the little bull's-eye window of the
state-room, as if eager to swallow up ship and passengers.
From
Charleston, however, they had a most delightful run to their journey's end. She writes:
We had a triumphal entrance into the St. John's, and a glorious sail up the river.
Arriving at Mandarin, at four o'clock, we found all the neighbors, black as well as white, on the wharf to receive us. There was a great waving of handkerchiefs and flags, clapping of hands and cheering, as we drew near.
The house was open and all ready for us, and we are delighted to be once more in our beautiful Florida home.
In the following December she writes to her son:
I am again entangled in writing a serial, a thing I never mean to do again, but the story, begun for a mere Christmas brochure, grew so under my hands that I thought I might as well fill it out and make a book of it. It is the last thing of the kind I ever expect to do. In it I condense my recollections of a bygone era, that in which I was brought up, the ways and manners of which are now as nearly obsolete as the Old England of Dickens's stories is.
I am so hampered by the necessity of writing this story, that I am obliged to give up company and visiting of all kinds and keep my strength for it. I hope I may be able to finish it, as I greatly desire to do so, but I begin to feel that I am not so strong as I used to be. Your mother is an old woman, Charley mine,
