To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, March 14, 1871.

So you have at last broken the ice and made out, after almost a year, to write that promised letter!  Well, it was worth waiting for, and welcome when it came, and awakened in me an enthusiasm about seeing the dear creature, of which I hardly thought my old heart was capable (that statement is an affectation; my heart isn’t old, and never will be).  Our plan now is, if all prospers, to go to Philadelphia on Friday afternoon, spend the night with you, Saturday with Mrs. Kirkbride, and Sunday and part of Monday with you.  I hope you mean to let us have a quiet little time with you, unbeknown to strangers, whom I dread and shrink from....

March 28th.—­What a queer way we womenkind have of confiding in each other with perfectly reckless disregard of consequences!  It is a mercy that men are, for the most part, more prudent, though not half so delightful!...  Well, I’m ever so glad I’ve seen you in your home, only I found you more frail (in the way of health) than I found you fair.  We hear that your husband preached “splendidly,” as of course we knew he would, and the next exchange I shall be there to hear as well as to see.

Coming out of the cars yesterday, I picked up a “Daily Food,” dropped, I suppose, by its owner, “Sarah ——­,” of Philadelphia, given her by “Miss H. in 1853.”  It has travelled all over Europe, and is therefore no doubt precious to her who thus made it her friend.  Now how shall I get it to her?  Can you learn her address, or shall I write to her at a venture, without one?  I know how I felt—­when I once lost mine; it was given me in 1835, and has gone with me ever since whenever I have journeyed (as I was so happy as to find it again). [3] I think if I have the pleasure of restoring it to its owner, she will feel glad that it did not fall into profane hands.  I thought it right to look through it, in order to get some clue, if possible, to its destination; I fancy it was the silent comforter of a wife who went abroad with her husband for his health, and came home a widow; God bless her, whoever she is, for she evidently believes in and loves Him.  What sort of a world can it be to those who don’t? [4] Remember me affectionately to yourself and your dear ones, and now we’ve got a-going, let’s go ahead.

April 1st.—­What a pity it is that one can’t have a separate language with which to address each beloved one!  It seems so mean to use the same words to two or three or four people one loves so differently!  Now about my visit to you.  One reason why I did not stay longer was your looking worn out.  When I am feeling so dragged, visitors are a great wear and tear to me.  But I am afraid my selfishness would have got the upperhand of me if that were the whole story.  I can’t put into words the perfect horror I have of being made into a somebody; it fairly hurts me, and if I had stayed a week with you and the host of people you had about you, I should have shriveled up into the size of a pea.  I can’t deny having streaks of conceit, but I know enough about myself to make my rational moments bid me keep in the background, and it excruciates me to be set up on a pinnacle.  So don’t blame me if I fled in terror, and that I am looking forward to your visit, when I hope to have delightful pow-wows with you all by ourselves.