of the deacons of our church—­a very old man—­prays for me once a week at meeting, especially that my husband and I may be “mutual comforts and enjoyments of each other,” which makes us laugh a little in our sleeves, even while we say Amen in our hearts.  We have been reading aloud Mary Howitt’s “Author’s Daughter,” which is a very good story indeed—­don’t ask me if I have read anything else.  My mind has become a complete mummy, and therefore incapable of either receiving or originating a new idea.  I did wade through a sea of words, and nonsense on my way home in the shape of two works of Prof.  Wilson—­“The Foresters” and “Margaret Lindsay”—­which I fancy he wrote before he was out of his mother’s arms or soon after leaving them.  The girls in Portland are marrying off like all possessed.  It reminds me of a shovel full of popcorn, which the more you watch it the more it won’t pop, till at last it all goes racketing off at once, pop, pop, pop; without your having time to say Jack Robinson between.

My position as wife of a minister secures for me many affectionate attentions, and opens to me many little channels of happiness, which conspire to make me feel contented and at home here.  I do not know how a stranger would find New Bedford people, but I am inclined to think society is hard to get into, though its heart is warm when you once do get in.  We are very pleasantly situated, and our married life has been abundantly blessed.  I doubt if we could fail to be contented anywhere if we had each other to love and care for.

We went to hear Templeton sing last night.  I was perfectly charmed with his hunting song and with some others, and better judges than I were equally delighted.  I had a letter from Abby last week.  She is in Vicksburg and in fine spirits, and fast returning health.

Her letters during 1846 glow with the sunshine of domestic peace and joy.  In its earlier months her health was unusually good and she depicts her happiness as something “wonderful.”  All the day long her heart, she says, was “running over” with a love and delight she could not begin to express.  But her letters also show that already she was having foretastes of that baptism of suffering, which was to fit her for doing her Master’s work.  In January she revisited Portland, where she had the pleasure of meeting Prof, and Mrs. Hopkins with their little boy, and of passing several weeks in the society of her own and her husband’s family.  But Portland had now lost for her much of its attraction.  “I’ve seen all the folks,” she wrote, “and we’ve said about all we’ve got to say to each other, and though I love to be at home, of course, it is not the home it used to be before you had made such another dear, dear home for me.  Oh, do you miss me? do you feel a little bit sorry you let me leave you?  Do say, yes....  But I can’t write, I am so happy!  I am so glad I am going home!” Early in December her first child was born.  Writing a few weeks later to Mrs. Stearns, she thus refers to this event: