I never could fully understand the deep sadness which was the groundwork of her nature.  It certainly did not prevent the most intense enjoyment of her rich temporal and spiritual blessings, while it indicated depths which her friends did not fathom.  It was partly constitutional, doubtless, and partly, I suppose, from her keener sensitiveness, her larger grasp, her stronger convictions, her more vivid vision, and more ardent desires.  Even the glowing, almost seraphic love of Christ which was the chief characteristic of her later life was, in her words, “but longing and seeking.”  She was an exile yearning for her home, “stepping heavenward,” and knowing better than the rest of us what it meant.

These things come to me now, and yet how much I have omitted—­her industry so varied and untiring, her generosity (so many gifts of former days are around me now), her interest in my children, her delight in flowers and colors and all beautiful things, her ready sympathy—­but it is an almost inexhaustible subject.  She comes vividly before me now, seated on the floor in her room, with her work around her, making something for such and such a person.  What the void in your life must be those who knew most of her manifold, exalted, inspiring life can but imagine.

  “Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead
  By bending forward where they are;
  But Memory, with a backward tread,
  Communes with them afar!

  “The joys we lose are but forecast,
  And we shall find them all once more;
  We look behind us for the past,
  But, lo! ’tis all before!”

[1] See Memoir of S. S. Prentiss, edited by his Brother, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.  New Edition. 1879.

[2] The following is part of the notice in the London Daily News: 

“We are, unfortunately, ignorant of Little Susy’s Six Birthdays, but if that book be anything like as good as the charming volume before us by the same author, ycleped Little Lou’s Sayings and Doings, it deserves an extraordinary popularity.... Little Lou. is one of the most natural stories in the world, and reads more like a mother’s record of her child’s sayings and doings than like a fictitious narrative.  Little Lou, be it remarked, is a true baby throughout, instead of being a precocious little prig, as so many good children are in print.  The child’s love for his mother and his mother’s love for him is described in the prettiest way possible.”

[3] Now Professor of Theology at Bangor.

[4] The following is an extract from a letter of one of the editors of The Advance, Mr. J. B. T. Marsh, dated Chicago, August 10,1869:—­“You will notice that the story is completed this week; I wish it could have continued six months longer.  I have several times been on the point of writing you to express my own personal satisfaction—­and more than satisfaction—­in reading it, and to acquaint you with the great unanimity and volume