is groaning and travailing in pain together; and we shall doubtless learn, in eternity, that our lot was not peculiar, but that we had millions of unknown fellow-sufferers on the way.  Don’t be too disappointed, but let us rather be thankful, that if our poor children must be sick, it was here and not in Paris, and now, good night.  Betake yourself to your knees, when you have read this, and pray for us with all your might.

Jan. 5, 1860.—­The doctor has been here and says the other children must not meet G. till the end of this month, unless they are taken sick meantime.  Poor M. melted like a snow-flake in the fire, when she heard that; she begins to miss her little playmate, and keeps running to say things to him through the key-hole, and to serenade him with singing, accompanied with a rattling of knives.  I see but one thing to be done; for you to stay and preach and me to stay and nurse, each in the place God has assigned us....  You must pray for me, that I may be patient and willing to have my coming to Europe turn out a failure as far as my special enjoyment of it is concerned.  There are better things than going to Paris, being with you and hearing you preach; pray that I may have them in full measure.  I can’t bear to stop writing—­good-bye, my dearest love!

Jan. 15th—­If you could look in upon us this evening, you would be not a little surprised to see me writing in the corner of my room, close to the wash-stand where my lamp is placed; but you would see at a glance that the curtain of the bed is let down to shade our darling little M.’s eyes, as she lies close at my side.  How sorry I am, as you can not see all this, to have to tell it to you!  I have let her decide for me, and she wants dear papa to know that she is sick.  Oh, why need I add another care to those you already suffer on our account!...  As to baby, we are disposed to think that he has had the fever.  Of course we do not know, but it is pleasant to hope the best....  And now, my precious darling, you see there is more praying work to do, as I hinted in my Saturday’s note when my heart was pretty heavy within me.  I need not tell you what to ask for the dear child; but for me do pray that I may have no will of my own.  All these trials and disappointments are so purely Providential that it frightens me to think I may have much secret discontent about them, or may like to plan for myself in ways different from God’s plans.  Yet in the midst of so much care and fatigue I hardly know how I do feel; I am like a feather blown here and there by an unexpected whirlwind and I suppose I ought not to expect much of myself.  “Though He slay me yet will I trust in Him,” I keep saying over and over to myself, and if you are going to write a new sermon this week, suppose you take that for your text.  I have not had one regret that you went to Paris, and as to your coming on, I do hope you will not think of it, unless you are sent for.  You could do nothing and would be very lonely and uncomfortable.  The doctor told me to tell you to stay where you were, and that you ought to rejoice that the children are not sick in Paris.  I do trust that in the end we shall come forth from this troublous time like gold from the furnace.  So far I have been able to do all that was necessary and I trust I shall continue so.  God bless you, and bring us to a happy meeting in His own good time!