Yesterday Mr. F. and George drove somewhere to look at sand for mortar, and the horse took fright and wheeled round and pitched George out, bruising him in several places, but doing no serious harm.  But I shudder when I think how the meaning might be taken out of everything in this world, for me, at least, by such an accident.  He preached all day to-day; in the afternoon at Rupert.  I find my mission-school a good deal of a tax on time and strength, and it is discouraging business, too.  One of the boys, fourteen years old, found the idea that God loved him so irresistibly ludicrous, that his face was a perfect study.  I often think of you as these “active limbs of mine” take me over woods and fields, and remind myself that the supreme happiness of my father’s life came to him when he called himself what you call yourself—­a cripple.  If it is not an expensive book, I think you had better buy A Sister’s Story, of which I wrote to you, as it would be a nice Sunday book to last some time; the Catholicism you would not mind, and the cultivated, high-toned Christian character you would enjoy.

The boys complain, as George and I do, that the days are not half long enough.  They have got their bedsteads and washstands done, and are now going to make couches for George and myself, and an indefinite number of other articles.

Sept. 20th.—­I am greatly relieved, my dear Anna, to hear that you have got safely into your new home, and that you like it, and long to see you face to face.  George has no doubt told you what a happy summer we have had.  It has not been unmingled happiness—­that is not to be found in this world—­but in many ways it has been pleasant in spite of what infirmities of the flesh we carry with us everywhere, our anxiety about and sympathy with you, and the other cares and solicitudes that are inseparable from humanity.  I had a great deal of comfort in seeing Miss Lyman while she was here, and in knowing her better, and now I am finding myself quite in love with her intimate friend, Miss Warner, who has been here all summer.  A gentler, tenderer spirit can not exist.  Mrs. F.’s brother was here with his wife, some weeks ago, and they were summoned home to the death-bed of their last surviving child.  Mrs. F. read me a letter yesterday describing her last hours, which were really touching and beautiful, especially the distributing among her friends the various pretty things she had made for them during her illness, as parting gifts.  I suppose this will be my last letter from Dorset and from your old room.  Well, you and I have passed some happy hours under this roof.  Good-bye, dear, with love to each and all of your beloved ones.

To Miss Eliza A. Warner, Dorset, Sept. 27, 1868.