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Florence, Oct. 14, 1849.—­Weary in spirit, with the deep disappointments of the last year, I wish to dwell little on these things for the moment, but seek some consolation in the affections.  My little boy is quite well now, and I often am happy in seeing how joyous and full of activity he seems.  Ossoli, too, feels happier here.  The future is full of difficulties for us, but, having settled our plans for the present, we shall set it aside while we may.  “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof;” and if the good be not always sufficient, in our case it is; so let us say grace to our dinner of herbs.

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Florence, Nov. 7.—­Dearest Mother,—­Of all your endless acts and words of love, never was any so dear to me as your last letter;—­so generous, so sweet, so holy!  What on earth is so precious as a mother’s love; and who has a mother like mine!

I was thinking of you and my father, all that first day of October, wishing to write, only there was much to disturb me that day, as the police were threatening to send us away.  It is only since I have had my own child that I have known how much I always failed to do what I might have done for the happiness of you both; only since I have seen so much of men and their trials, that I have learned to prize my father as he deserved; only since I have had a heart daily and hourly testifying to me its love, that I have understood, too late, what it was for you to be deprived of it.  It seems to me as if I had never sympathized with you as I ought, or tried to embellish and sustain your life, as far as is possible, after such an irreparable wound.

It will be sad for me to leave Italy, uncertain of return.  Yet when I think of you, beloved mother; of brothers and sisters, and many friends, I wish to come.  Ossoli is perfectly willing.  He leaves in Rome a sister, whom he dearly loves.  His aunt is dying now.  He will go among strangers; but to him, as to all the young Italians, America seems the land of liberty.  He hopes, too, that a new revolution will favor return, after a number of years, and that then he may find really a home in Italy.  All this is dark;—­we can judge only for the present moment.  The decision will rest with me, and I shall wait till the last moment, as I always do, that I may have all the reasons before me.

I thought, to-day, ah, if she could only be with us now!  But who knows how long this interval of peace will last?  I have learned to prize such, as the halcyon prelude to the storm.  It is now about a fortnight, since the police gave us leave to stay, and we feel safe in our little apartment.  We have no servant except the nurse, with occasional aid from the porter’s wife, and now live comfortably so, tormented by no one, helping ourselves.  In the evenings, we have a little fire now;—­the baby sits on his stool between us.  He makes me