We have got here safe and sound with our little batch of invalids.  They bore the journey very well and are heartily glad to get into the world again.  I am chock-full of worldliness.  All I think of is dress and fashion, and, on the whole, I don’t know that you are worth writing to, as you were never in Paris and don’t know the modes, and have perhaps foolishly left off hoops and open sleeves.  I long, however, to hear from you and your new babby, and will try to keep a small spot swept clear of finery in my heart of hearts, where you can sit down when you’ve a mind.  Our little fellow is getting to be a sweet-looking baby, with what his nurse calls a most “gracieuse” smile—­if you can guess what kind of a smile that is.  But he is getting teeth and is looking delicate and soft, and your Hercules will knock him down, I know.

But Paris was far from fulfilling to her or to the children the bright anticipations with which it had been looked forward to from lonely Genevrier.  The weather could hardly have been worse; the house soon became another hospital; and sight-seeing was a task.  Friends, however, soon gathered about her, and by their hospitality and little kindnesses, relieved the tedium of the weary days.

To Mrs. Stearns, Paris, March 27, 1860.

We pass many lonely hours in this big city, and often long for you and Mr. Stearns to drop in, or for a chance to run in to see dear mother.  Getting nearer home makes it attractive.  It works in the natural life just as it does in the spiritual in that respect.  The weather is dreadful and has been for five months—­scarcely one cheery day in that whole time.  What with this and the children’s ill-health, I should not wonder if we left Paris as ignorant of its beauties as when we came.  But I hope we shall not let that worry us too much, but rather be thankful that, bad as things are, they are not so bad as they might be.  Our sympathies are greatly excited now for the Rev. Mr. Little, formerly of Bangor, who is in Paris—­alone, friendless, and sick.  If we could by any miraculous power stretch our scanty accommodations, we should certainly take him home and nurse him till his wife could be got here.  You know, perhaps, that Mrs. Little is a daughter of Dr. Cornelius; and, when I recall the love and honor I was taught to feel towards him when I was a little girl, my heart quite yearns towards her, especially in this time of fearful anxiety about her husband.  How insignificant my own trials look to me, when I think of the sorrow which is probably before her.

April 26th.—­Our patience is still tried by the cold, damp, and most unwholesome weather, which prevents the children from going to see anything.  But we do not care so much for ourselves or for them as for poor Mr. Little, who is exceedingly feeble, chiefly confined to his room, and so forlorn in this strange, homeless land.  While George was with him last evening, he had a bad fit of coughing, which