Feb. 1st.—­I have had no heart to make a record of what has befallen us since I last wrote.  And yet I may, sometime, want to recall this experience, painful as it is.  Dear little baby had been improving in health, and on Wednesday we went to dine at Mrs. Wainright’s.  We went at four.  About eight, word came that she was ill.  When I got home I found her insensible, with her eyes wide open, her breathing terrific, and her condition in every respect very alarming.  Just as Dr. Buck was coming in, she roused a little, but soon relapsed into the same state.  He told us she was dying.  I felt like a stone, In a moment I seemed to give up my hold on her.  She appeared no longer mine but God’s.  It is always so in such great emergencies. Then, my will that struggles so about trifles, makes no effort.  But as we sat hour after hour watching the alternations of color in her purple face and listening to that terrible gasping, rattling sound, I said to myself “A few more nights like this, and I do believe my body and soul would yield to such anguish.”  Oh, why should I try to tell myself what a night it was.  God knows, God only!  How He has smitten me by means of this child, He well knows.  She remained thus about twelve hours.  Twelve hours of martyrdom to me such as I never had known.  Then to our unspeakable amazement she roused up, nursed, and then fell into a sweet sleep of some hours.

Sunday, Feb. 3d.—­The stupor, or whatever it is, in which that dreadful night has left me, is on me still.  I have no more sense or feeling than a stone.  I kneel down before God and do not say a word.  I take up a book and read, but get hold of nothing.  At church I felt afraid I should fall upon the people and tear them.  I could wish no one to pity me or even know that I am smitten.  It does seem to me that those who can sit down and cry, know nothing of misery.

Feb. 4th.—­At last the ice melts and I can get near my God—­my only comfort, my only joy, my All in all!  This morning I was able to open my heart to Him and to cast some of this burden on Him, who alone knows what it is....  I see that it is sweet to be a pilgrim and a stranger, and that it matters very little what befalls me on the way to my blessed home.  If God pleases to spare my child a little longer, I will be very thankful.  May He take this season, when earthly comfort fails me, to turn me more than ever to Himself.  For some months I have enjoyed a great deal in Him.  Prayer has been very sweet and I have had some glimpses of joys indescribable.

6th.—­She still lives.  I know not what to think.  One moment I think one thing and the next another.  It is harder to submit to this suspense than to a real, decided blow.  But I desire to leave it to my God.  He knows all her history and all mine.  He orders all these aggravating circumstances and I would not change them.  My darling has not lived in vain.  For eighteen months she has been the little rod used by my Father for my chastisement and not, I think, quite in vain.  Oh my God! stay not Thy hand till Thou hast perfected that which concerneth me.  Send anything rather than unsanctified prosperity.