You think A. may have looked scornfully at your little “spray.”  Well, she didn’t; she said, “What’s that funny little thing perched up there?  Well, it’s pretty anyhow.”  Among the rush of visitors to-day were Miss Haines and the W——­s.  I fell upon Miss W. and told her about you, furiously; then we got upon Miss Lyman, and it did my very soul good to hear Miss Haines praise and magnify her.  Never shall I cease to be thankful for being with her at Dorset, to say nothing, dear, of you!  Do you know that there are twelve cases of typhoid fever at Vassar? and that Miss Lyman is not as well as she was?  I feel greatly concerned about her, not to say troubled.  I don’t suppose I shall ever hear her pray.  But I shall hear her and help her praise.  I don’t believe a word about there being different grades of saints in heaven.  Some people think it modest to say that they don’t expect to get anywhere near so and so, they are so—­etc., etc.  But I expect to be mixed all up with the saints, and to take perfect delight in their testimony to my Saviour.

Can you put up with this miserable letter?  Folks can’t rush to Newark and to Rochester and agonise in every nerve at the sufferings of others, and be quite coherent.  I have sense enough left to know that I love you dearly, and that I long to see you and to take sweet counsel with you once more.  Don’t fail to give me the helping hand.

The following was written to Mrs. Stearns on her silver-wedding day, Nov. 15: 

MY DEAREST ANNA:  I have thought of you all day with the tenderest sympathy, knowing how you had looked forward to it, and what a contrast it offers to your bridal day twenty-five years ago.  But I hope it has not been wholly sad.  You have a rich past that can not be taken from you, and a richer future lies before you.  For I can see, though through your tears you can not, that the Son of God walks with you in this furnace of affliction, and that He is so sanctifying it to your soul, that ages hence you will look on this day as better, sweeter, than the day of your espousals.  It is hard now to suffer, but after all, the light affliction is nothing, and the weight of glory is everything.  You may not fully realise this or any other truth, in your enfeebled state, but truth remains the same whether we appreciate it or not; and so does Christ.  Your despondency does not prove that He is not just as near to you as He is to those who see Him more clearly; and it is better to be despondent than to be self-righteous.  Don’t you see that in afflicting you He means to prove to you that He loves you, and that you love Him?  Don’t you remember that it is His son—­not His enemy—­that He scourgeth?

The greatest saint on earth has got to reach heaven on the same terms as the greatest sinner; unworthy, unfit, good-for-nothing; but saved through grace.  Do cheer and comfort yourself with these thoughts, my dearest Anna, and your sick-room will be the happiest room in your house, as I constantly pray it may be!  Your ever affectionate Lizzy.