Dec. 9th—­We went to see Mrs. W. this afternoon.  Julia had typhoid fever, which ran twenty-one days, and was delirious a good deal of the time.  She got ready to die before her confinement, though she said she expected to live.  After she became so very ill Mrs. W. heard her praying for something “for Christ’s sake,” “for the sake of Christ’s sufferings,” and once asked her what it was she was asking for so earnestly.  “Oh, to get well for Edward’s sake and the baby’s,” she replied.  A few days before her death she called Mrs. W. to “come close” to her, and said, “I am going to die.  I did not think so when baby was born, dear little thing—­but now it is impressed upon me that I am.”  Mrs. W. said they hoped not, but added, “Yet suppose you should die, what then?” “Oh I have prayed, day and night, to be reconciled, and I am, perfectly so.  God will take care of Edward and of my baby.  Perhaps it is better so than to run the risk—­” She did not finish the sentence.  The baby looks like her.  Mrs. W. told her you had gone to Europe with M., and she expressed great pleasure; but if she had known where she was going, and to what, all she would have done would have been to give thanks “for Christ’s sake.”  I do not blame her, however, for clinging to life; it was natural she should.

10th—­We went, last evening, to hear Father Hyacinthe lecture on “Charite” at the Academy of Music.  I did not expect to understand a word, but was agreeably disappointed, as he spoke very distinctly.  Still I did not enjoy hearing as well as I did reading it this morning—­for I lost some of the best things in a really fine address.  It was a brilliant scene, the very elite of intellectual society gathered around one modest, unpretentious little man.  Dr. and Mrs. Crosby were in the box with us, and she, fortunately, had an opera glass with her, so that we had a chance to study his really good face.  The only book I expect to write this winter is to you; I am dreadfully lazy since you left, and don’t do anything but haze about.  There is a good deal of lively talk at the table; the children are waked up by going to school, and there is some rivalry among them, each maintaining that his and hers is the best.

Dec. 15th.—­We have cards for a “Soiree musicale” at Mrs. ——­’s, which is to be a great smash-up.  She called here to-day and wept and wailed over and kissed me.  I have been to see how Mrs. C. is.  She is a little worse to-day, and he and her father scarcely leave her.  He wrung my hand all to pieces, poor man.  Her illness is exciting great sympathy in our church, and nobody seems willing to let her go.  Dr. Adams spent last evening here.  He is splendid company; I really wish he would come once a week.  Everybody is asking if I meant in Katy to describe myself.  I have no doubt that if I should catch an old toad, put on to her a short gown and petticoat and one of my caps, everybody would walk up to her and say, “Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Prentiss, you look more like yourself than common; I recognise the picture you have drawn of yourself in Stepping Heavenward and in the Percys,” etc., etc., etc., ad nauseam.  The next book I write I’ll make my heroine black and everybody will say, “Oh, here you are again, black to the life!”