lost that splendid little girl of his; the only girl he ever had, and the child of his heart of hearts.  Mrs. W. says she never saw papa and myself look so well, but some gentleman told Mr. Brace, who told his wife, who told me, that I was killing myself with long walks.  I can not answer your questions about Mr. ——­’s call.  So much is all the time going on that one event speedily effaces the impression of another.

March 12th.—­Julia Willis spent the evening here not long ago, and made me laugh well.  She took me on Friday to see Fanny Fern, who hugged and kissed me, and whom it was rather pleasant to see after nearly, if not quite, thirty years’ separation.  She says nobody but a Payson could have written Stepping Heavenward, which is absurd. March 17th.—­I went to the sewing circle [4] and helped tuck a quilt, had a talk with Mrs. W., got home at a quarter of one and ate two apples, and have been since then reading the secret correspondence of Madame Guyon and Fenelon in old French.

Saturday, 19th.—­Have just seen M. to the Conservatory; met Dr. Skinner on the way home, who said he had been reading Stepping Heavenward, and he hoped he should step all the faster for it.  Z. has often invited us to come to see her new home, and as the 16th comes on a Saturday, we are talking a little of all going up to lunch with her. Evening.—­It has been such a nice warm day.  I had a pleasant call from Mrs. Dr. ——.  She asked me if I did not get the theology of Stepping Heavenward out of my father’s “Thoughts,” but as I have not read them for thirty years, I doubt if I did, and as I am older than my father was when he uttered those thoughts, I have a right to a theology of my own.

Monday.—­Yesterday, in the afternoon, we had the Sunday-school anniversary, which went off very well.  Mr. C. came to tea; after it and prayers, we sat round the table and I read scraps from Madame Guyon and Fenelon, and we talked them over.  Papa was greatly pleased at the latter’s saying he often stopped in the midst of his devotions to play.

Quand je suis seul, je joue quelquefois comme un petit enfant, meme en faisant oraison.  Il m’arrive quelquefois de sauter et de rire tout seul comme un fou dans ma chambre.  Avant-hier, etant dans la sacristie et repondant a une personne qui me questionnait, pour ne la point scandaliser sur la question, je m’embarrassai, et je fis une espece de mensonge; cela me donna quelque repugnance a dire la Messe, mais je ne laissai pas de la dire.

I do not advise you to stop to play in the midst of your prayers, or to tell “une espece de mensonge!” till you are as much of a saint as he was. [5]

Saturday, 26th.—­Your letter and Mrs. Smith’s came together this afternoon.  It is pleasant to hear from papa’s old friends at Halle, and he will be delighted, when he comes home from Chi Alpha, where he is now.  Lizzy B. called this afternoon; she wanted to open out her poor sick heart to me.  She quoted to me several things she says I wrote her a few weeks ago, but I have not the faintest recollection of writing them.  That shows what a harum-scarum life I lead.