not one.  But the agony has been dreadful.  I won’t talk about that; I just want to see your sunny face.”  I asked if she was rejoicing in the hope of meeting lost friends and the saints in heaven.  She said, with an expressive look, “Oh, no, I haven’t got so far as that.  I have only got as far as Christ.”  “For all that,” I said, “you’ll see my father and mother there.”  “Why, so I shall,” with another bright smile.  But her lips were growing white with pain, and I came away.

Did I tell you it was our silver wedding-day on the 16th?  We had a very happy day, and if I could see you I should like to tell you all about it.  But it is too long a story to tell in writing.  I don’t see but I’ve had everything this life can give, and have a curious feeling as if I had got to a stopping-place.  I heard yesterday that two of M.’s teachers had said they looked at her with perfect awe on account of her goodness.  I really never knew her to do anything wrong.

To a young Friend New York, May 1, 1870.

I could write forever on the subject of Christian charity, but I must say that in the case you refer to, I think you accuse yourself unduly.  We are not to part company with our common sense because we want to clasp hands with the Love that thinketh no evil, and we can not help seeing that there are few, if any, on earth without beams in their eyes and foibles and sins in their lives.  The fact that your friend repented and confessed his sin, entitled him to your forgiving love, but not to the ignoring of the fact that he was guilty....  Temptations come sometimes in swarms, like bees, and running away does no good, and fighting only exasperates them.  The only help must come from Him who understands and can control the whole swarm.

You ask for my prayers, and I ask for yours.  I long ago formed the habit of praying at night individually, if possible, for all who had come to me through the day, or whom I had visited; but you contrive to get a much larger share than that.  I love to think of your future holiness and usefulness as even in the very least linked to my prayers.  Oh, I ought to know how to pray a great deal better than I do, for forty years ago, save one, I this day publicly dedicated myself to Christ.  I write to you because I like to do so, recognising no difference between writing and talking.  When no better work comes to me, I am glad to give the little pleasure I can, in notes and letters.  He who knows how poor we are, how little we have to give, does not disdain even a note like this, since it is written in love to Him and to one of His own dear ones.

May 23d.—­Your last letter was like a fragrant breath of country air, redolent of flowers, and all that makes rural scenes so sweet.  But better still, it was fragrant with love to Him who is the bond between us, in whose name and for whose sake we are friends.  I wish I loved Him better and were more like Him; perhaps that is about as far as we get in this world, for no matter how far we advance, we are never satisfied; there is always something ahead; I doubt if any one ever said, even in a whisper and to himself, “Now I love my Saviour as much as a human soul can.”