And now the children have got together again, and I must go and stay with them till their bed-time, when, partly for the sake of the walk, partly because they asked us, we twain are going to see the Smiths.  I rather think, my dear, that if, as you say, you could see all my thoughts, you would drop me as you would a hot potato.  You would see many good thoughts, I won’t deny that, and some loving ones; but you would also see an abominable lot of elated, conceited, horrid ones; self-laudation even at good planned to do, and admired before done.  But God can endure what no mortal eye could; He does not love us because we are so lovely, but because He always loves what He pities.  I fall back upon this thought whenever I feel discouraged; I was going to say sad, but that isn’t the word, for I never do feel sad except when I’ve been eating something I’d no business to!  Good-bye, dearie.

To the Same, New York, Dec. 3, 1868.

I think I must indulge myself, my dear, in writing to you to-night, it being really the only thing I want to do, unless it be to lie half asleep on the sofa.  And that I can’t do, for there’s no sofa in the room!  The cold weather has made it agreeable to have a fire in the dining-room grate, and this makes it a cheerful resort for the children, especially as the long table is very convenient for their books, map-drawing, etc.  And wherever the rest are the mother must be; I suppose that is the law of a happy family, in the winter at least.  The reason I am so tired to-night is that I have been unexpectedly to Newark.  I went, as soon as I could after breakfast, to market, and then on a walk of over two miles to prepare myself for our sewing-circle!  I met our sexton as I was coming home, and asked him to see what ailed one of the drawers of my desk that wouldn’t shut.  We had a terrible time with it, and I had to take everything out, and turn my desk topsy-turvy, and your letters and all my other papers got raving distracted, and all mixed up with bits of sealing-wax, old pens, and dear knows what not, when down comes A. from the school-room, to say that Mrs. Stearns had sent for me to come right out, thinking she was dying.  I knew nothing about the trains, always trusting to Mr. Prentiss about that, but in five minutes I was off, and on reaching the depot found I had lost a train by ten minutes, and that there wouldn’t be another for an hour.  Then I had leisure to remember that Mr. P. was to get home from Dorset, that I had left no message for him, had hid away all the letters that had come in his absence, where he couldn’t find them; that if it was necessary for me to stay at Newark all night he would be dreadfully frightened, etc., etc.  Somehow I felt very blue, but at last concluded to get rid of a part of the time by hunting up some dinner at a restaurant.