He died the day
before my thirteenth birthday, and as my existence had begun at a time
when his quiet life was invaded (if we may use that term in connection
with a welcome guest) by fame, with its attendant activity in the
outside world, my intercourse with him was both juvenile and brief. In
England, he mingled more than ever before with the members of literary
and fashionable society. I, who in 1853 was but two years old, had to
be satisfied with a glance and a smile, which were so much less than
he had been able to give to my brother and sister in their happier
childhood days, for they had enjoyed hours of his companionship as a
constant pastime. I was, moreover, much younger than the others, and
was never allowed to grow, as I wished, out of the appellations of
Rosebud, Baby, and Bab (as my father always called me), and all the
infantine thought which those pet names imply. I longed myself to
hear the splendidly grotesque fairy tales, sprung from his delicious
jollity of imagination, which Una and Julian had reveled in when our
father had been at leisure in Lenox and Concord; and the various
frolics about which I received appetizing hints as I grew into
girlhood made me seem to myself a stranger who had come too late. But
a stranger at Hawthorne's side could be very happy, and, whatever my
losses, I knew myself to be rich.
In the early years of our stay in England his personality was most
radiant. His face was sunny, his aspect that of shining elegance.
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