The Cheney woods, as we call them, form one of the attractions of Dorset.  They are quite extensive, abound in majestic sugar-maples, some of which have been “tapped,” it is said, for more than sixty successive seasons, and at one point in them is a water-shed dividing into two little rivulets, one of which, after mingling with the waters of the Battenkill and the Hudson, finds its way at last into the Atlantic Ocean; while the other reaches the same ocean through Pawlet River, Lake Champlain and the St. Lawrence River.  These woods and our own, together with the mountain and waterfall and groves beyond Deacon Kellogg’s, where she often met her old friend “Uncle Isaac,” [8] were her favorite resorts.

A little while after returning home I found her in her little room, looking well and happy, and busy with her brush.  The girls, also, on reaching the house found her there.  But somewhat later, without our knowledge, she went out and worked for a long time on and about the lawn.  There was a breeze, but the rays of the sun were scorchingly hot and she doubtless exerted herself, as she was always tempted to do, beyond her strength.  I was occupied until noon at the mill and later, in the field, watching the men cradling oats.  On coming in to dinner, a little past one, I was startled not to find her at the table, “Where is mamma?” said I to M.  “She is not feeling very well,” M. answered, “and said she would not come down, as she did not want any dinner.”  I ran up-stairs, found her in her little room, and asked her what was the matter.  She replied that she had been troubled with a little nausea and felt weak, but it was nothing serious.  I went back to the table, but with a worried, anxious mind.  Somewhat later she lay down on the bed and the prostration became so great, that I rubbed her hands vigorously and administered hartshorn.  It occurred to me at once that she had barely escaped a sunstroke.  After rallying from this terrible fit of exhaustion, she seemed quite like herself again, and listened with much interest while the girls read to her out of Boswell’s Johnson.  She was in a sweet, gentle mood all the afternoon.  “I prayed this morning,” she said, “that I might be a comfort to-day to everybody in the house.”

Tuesday, Aug.6th.—­She passed the day in bed; feeble, but otherwise seeming still like herself.  In the course of the morning we persuaded her to let Margaret, Eddy’s old nurse, make her some milk-toast, which she enjoyed so much that she said, “I wish, Margaret, you were well enough to come and be our cook.”  M. had taken the place of our two servants, who were gone to East Dorset to a Confirmation, at which their bishop was to be present.  Throughout the day she was in a very tender, gentle mood, as she had been on the previous afternoon.  She was much exercised by the sudden death of the mother of one of our servants, the news of which came while they were away.  Had the case been that of a near relative, she could hardly have shown warmer sympathy, or administered consolation in a more considerate manner.