Nov. 12th.—­The more I try to understand myself, the more I am puzzled.  That I am a mixture of contradictions is the opinion I have long had of myself.  I call it a compound of sincerity and reserve.  Unless you see just what I mean in your own consciousness, I doubt whether I can explain it in words.  With me it is both an open and a shut heart—­open when and where and as far as I please, and shut as tight as a vise in the same way.  I was probably born with this same mixture of frankness and reserve, having inherited the one from my mother and the other from my father....  I have often thought that, humanly speaking, it would be a strange, and surely a very sad thing if we none of us inherit any of our father’s piety; for when he prayed for his children it was, undoubtedly, that we might be very peculiarly the Lord’s.  H. was to be the missionary; but if he can not go himself, and is prospered in business, I hope he will be able to help send others.  I have been frightened, of late, in thinking how little good I am doing in the world.  And yet I believe that those who love to do good always find opportunities enough, wherever they are.  Whether I shall do any here, I dare not try to guess.

Dec. 3d.—­How I thank you for the interest you take in my Bible class.  They are so attentive to every word I say that it makes me deeply feel the importance of seeking each of those words from the Holy Spirit.  Many of them had not even a Bible of their own until now, nor were they in the habit of reading it at all.  Among others there are two grand-daughters of Patrick Henry.  I wish I could give you a picture of them, as they sit on Sabbath evening around the table with their eyes fixed so eagerly on my face, that if I did not feel that the Lord Jesus was present, I should be overwhelmed with confusion at my unworthiness....  Mr. Persico is a queer man.  Last Sabbath Miss L. asked him if he had been to church.  “Oui, Mlle.,” said he; “vous etiez a l’eglise de l’homme—­moi, j’etais a l’eglise de Dieu—­dans les bois.”  There is the bell for prayers; it is an hour since I began to write, but I have spent a great part of it with my eyes shut because I happened to feel more like meditating than writing, if you know what sort of a feeling that is.  Oh, that we might be enabled to go onward day by day—­and upward too.

I have been making violent efforts for years to become meek and lowly in heart.  At present I do hope that I am less irritable than I used to be.  It was no small comfort to me when sister was home last summer, to learn from her that I had succeeded somewhat in my efforts.  But though I have not often the last year been guilty of “harsh speeches,” I have felt my pride tugging with all its might to kindle a great fire when some unexpected trial has caught me off my guard.  I am persuaded that real meekness dwells deep within the heart and that it is only to be gained by communion with our blessed Saviour, who when He was reviled, reviled not again.