Jan. 22d.—­We have all been saddened by the repeated trials with which our friends the Willises are visited this winter.  Mrs. Willis is still very ill, and there is no hope of her recovery; and Ellen, the pet of the whole household—­the always happy, loving, beautiful young thing—­who had been full of delight in the hope of becoming a mother, lies now at the point of death; having lost her infant, and with it her bright anticipations.  For fourteen years there had not been a physician in their house, and you may imagine how they are all now taken, as it were, by surprise by the first break death has threatened to make in their peculiarly happy circle.  Our love for all the family has grown with our growth and strengthened with our strength, and what touches them we all feel.

Feb. 8th.—­How is it that people who have no refuge in God live through the loss of those they love?  I am very sad this morning, and almost wish I had never loved you or anybody.  Last night we heard of the death of Julia Willis’ sister, and this morning learn that a dear little girl in whom we all were much interested, and whom I saw on Saturday only slightly unwell, is taken away from her parents, who have no manner of consolation in losing this only child.  There is a great cloud throughout our house, and we hardly know what to do with ourselves.  When I met mother and sister yesterday on my return from your house, I saw that something was the matter of which they hesitated to tell me; and of whom should I naturally think but of you—­you in whom my life is bound up; and, when mother finally came to put her arms around me, I suffered for the moment that intensity of anguish which I should feel in knowing that something dreadful had befallen you.  She told me, however, of poor Ellen’s death, and I was so lost in recovering you again that I cared for nothing else all the evening, and until this morning had scarcely thought of the aching, aching hearts she has left behind.  Her poor young husband, who loved her so tenderly, is half-distracted.

Oh, I have blessed God to-day that until He had given me a sure and certain hold upon Himself, He had not suffered me to love as I love now!  It is a mystery which I can not understand, how the heart can live on through the moment which rends it asunder from that of which it has become a part, except by hiding itself in God.  I have felt Ellen’s death the more, because she and her husband were associated in my mind with you.  I hardly know how or why; but she told me much of the history of her heart when I saw her last summer on my way home from Richmond, at the same time that she spoke much of you.  She had seen you at our house before you went abroad, and seemed to have a sort of presentiment that we should love each other.

But I ought to beg you to forgive me for sending you this gloomy page; yet I was restless and wanted to tell you the thoughts that have been in my heart towards you to-day—­the serious and saddened love with which I love you, when I think of you as one whom God may take from me at any moment.  I do not know that it is unwise to look this truth in the face sometimes—­for if ever there was heart tempted to idolatry, to giving itself up fully, utterly, with perfect abandonment of every other hope and interest, to an earthly love, so is mine tempted now.