and another—­and yet the same—­filled his place.  I often said afterward that a little stranger was running about my nursery, not mine, but God’s.  Indeed, I can’t describe the peculiar feelings with which I always regarded him after this sickness, nor how the thought constantly met me, “He is not mine; he is God’s.”  Every night I used to thank Him for sparing him to me one day longer; thus truly enjoying him a day at a time.

An extract from a letter to Miss Lord, written on the anniversary of her mother’s death, will close the account of this year.

If I were in Portland now, I should go right down to see you.  I feel just like having a dear, old-fashioned talk with you.  I was thinking how many times death had entered that old Richmond circle of which you and I once formed a part; Mrs. Persico, Susan, Charlotte Ford, Kate Kennedy, and now our own dearest Lotty, all gone.  I can not tell you how much I miss and grieve for Lotty. [9] I can not be thankful enough that I went to Portland in the summer and had that last week with her, nor for her most precious visit here last winter.  Whenever you think of any little thing she said, I want you to write it down for me, no matter whether it seems worth writing or not.  I know by experience how precious such things are.  This is a sad day to me.  Indeed, all of this month has been so, recalling as it has done, all I was suffering at this time last year, and all my dear mother was then suffering.  I can hardly realise that she has been in heaven a whole year, and that I feel her loss as vividly as if it were but yesterday—­indeed, more so.  I do not feel that this affliction has done me the good that it ought to have done and that I hoped it would.  As far as I have any excuse it lies in my miserable health.  I want so much to be more of a Christian; to live a life of constant devotion.  Do tell me, when you write, if you have such troubled thoughts, and such difficulty in being steadfast and unmovable?  Oh, how I sigh for the sort of life I led in Richmond, and which was more or less the life of the succeeding years at home!  My husband tries to persuade me that the difference is more in my way of life, and that then being my time for contemplation, now is my time for action.  But I know, myself, that I have lost ground.  You must bear me in mind when you pray, my dear Louise, for I never had so much need of praying nor so little time or strength for it.

* * * * *

III.

Further Extracts from Eddy’s Journal.  Ill-health.  Visit to Newark.  Death of her Brother-in-law, S. S. Prentiss.  His Character.  Removal to Newark.  Letters.

The record of the new year opens with this entry in Eddy’s journal: