Love in a word was to her, after religion, the holiest and most wonderful reality of life; and in the presence of its mysteries she was—­to use her own comparison—­“like a child standing upon the seashore, watching for the onward rush of the waves, venturing himself close to the water’s edge, holding his breath and wooing their approach, and then, as they come dashing in, retreating with laughter and mock fear, only to return to tempt them anew.”  Her only solicitude was lest the new interest should draw her heart away from Him who had been its chief joy.  In a letter to her cousin, she touches on this point: 

You know how by circumstances my affections have been repressed, and now, having found liberty to love, I am tempted to seek my heaven in so loving.  But, my dear cousin, there is nothing worth having apart from God; I feel this every day more and more and the fear of satisfying myself with something short of Him—­this is my only anxiety.  This drives me to the throne of His grace and makes me refuse to be left one moment to myself.  I believe I desire first of all to love God supremely and to do something for Him, if He spares my life.

Early in December her sister, Mrs. Hopkins, with an infant boy, came to Portland and passed a part of the winter under the maternal roof.  The arrival of this boy—­her mother’s first grandchild—­was an event in the family history.  Here is her own picture of the scene: 

It was a cold evening, and grandmamma, who had been sitting by the fire, knitting and reading, had at last let her book fall from her lap, and had dropped to sleep in her chair.  The four uncles sat around the table, two of them playing chess, and two looking on, while Aunt Fanny, with her cat on her knees, studied German a little, looked at the clock very often, and started at every noise.

“I have said, all along, that they wouldn’t come,” she cried at last.  “The clock has just struck nine, and I am not going to expect them any longer.  I knew Herbert would not let Laura undertake such a journey in the depth of winter; or, at any rate, that Laura’s courage would tail at the last moment.”

She had hardly uttered these words, when there was a ring at the doorbell, then a stamping of feet on the mat, to shake off the snow, and in they Came, Lou, and Lou’s papa, and Lou’s mamma, bringing ever so much fresh, cold air with them.  Grandmamma woke up, and rose to meet them with steps as lively as if she were a young girl; Aunt Fanny tossed the cat from her lap, and seized the bundle that held the baby; the four uncles crowded about her, eager to get the first peep at the little wonder.  There was such a laughing, and such a tumult, that poor Lou, coming out of the dark night into the bright room, and seeing so many strange faces, did not know what to think.  When his cloaks and shawls and capes were at last pulled off by his auntie’s eager hands, there came into view a serious little face, a pair of bright eyes, and a head as smooth as ivory, on which there was not a single hair.  His sleeves were looped up with corals, and showed his plump white arms, and he sat up very straight, and took a good look at everybody.