When I at last got to Newark, I found that Mrs. Stearns’ disease had suddenly developed several unfavorable symptoms.  She had made up her mind that all hope was over, had taken leave of her family, and now wanted to bid me good-bye.  She held my hands fast in both hers, begging me to talk.  I spoke freely to her about her death; she pointed up once to an illumination I gave her last spring:  SIMPLY TO THY CROSS I CLING.  “That,” she said, “is all I can do.”  I said all I could to comfort her, but I do not know whether God gave me the right word or not.

On my return, as I got out of the stage near the corner of our street, whom should my weary eyes light on but my dear good man, just got home from Dorset; how surprised and delighted we were to meet so unexpectedly!  M. rushed to meet us, and afterward said to me, “I have three great reliefs; you have got home; papa has got home; and Aunt Anna is still alive.”  My children were never so lovely and loving as they are this winter; my home is almost too luxurious and happy; such things don’t belong to this world.  We have just heard of the death in Switzerland of Mr. Prentiss’ successor at New Bedford, classmate of one of my brothers, and some one has sent a plaintive, sweet little dying song written at Florence by him.  Now I am too fagged to say another word.

Dec. 4th.—­“I do not get any time to write; each day brings its own special work that can’t be done to-morrow; as to letters, I scratch them off at odd moments, when too tired to do anything else.  What a resource they are!  They do instead of crying for me.  And how many I get every week that are loving and pleasant!

What do you think of this?  I hope it will make you laugh—­a lady told me she never confessed her sins aloud (in prayer) lest Satan should find out her weak points and tempt her more effectually!  And I want to ask you if you ever offer to pray with people?  I never do, and yet there are cases when nothing else seems to answer.  Oh, how many questions of duty come up every hour, and how many reasons we have every hour to be ashamed of ourselves!

Monday morning.—­It was a shame to write to you, when I was so tired that I could not write legibly, but my heart was full of love, and I longed to be near you.  Now Monday has come, a lowering, forbidding day, yet all is sunshine in my soul, and I hope that may make my home light to my beloved ones, and even reach you, wherever you are.  I am going to run out to see how Mrs. Stearns is.  Our plan is for me to make arrangements to stay with her, if I can be of any use or comfort.  I literally love the house of mourning better than the house of feasting.  All my long, long years of suffering and sorrow make sorrow-stricken homes homelike, and I can not but feel, because I know it from experience, that Christ loves to be in such homes.  So you may congratulate me, dear, if I may be permitted to go where He goes.  I wish you could have heard