’It gave me great pleasure to get your last letter, for these little impromptu effusions are the genuine letters.  I rejoice that man and nature seem harmonious to you, and that the heart beats in unison with the voices of Spring.  May all that is manly, sincere, and pure, in your wishes, be realized!  Obliged to live myself without the sanctuary of the central relations, yet feeling I must still not despair, nor fail to profit by the precious gifts of life, while “leaning upon our Father’s hand,” I still rejoice, if any one can, in the true temper, and with well-founded hopes, secure a greater completeness of earthly existence.  This fortune is as likely to be yours, as any one’s I know.  It seems to me dangerous, however, to meddle with the future.  I never lay my hand on it to grasp it with impunity.’

* * * * *

’Of late I have often thought of you with strong yearnings of affection and desire to see you.  It would seem to me, also, that I had not devoted myself to you enough, if I were not conscious that by any more attention to the absent than I have paid, I should have missed the needed instructions from the present.  And I feel that any bond of true value will endure necessary neglect.’

* * * * *

’There is almost too much of bitter mixed in the cup of life.  You say religion is a mere sentiment with you, and that if you are disappointed in your first, your very first hopes and plans, you do not know whether you shall be able to act well.  I do not myself see how a reflecting soul can endure the passage through life, except by confidence in a Power that must at last order all things right, and the resolution that it shall not be our own fault if we are not happy,—­that we will resolutely deserve to be happy.  There are many bright glimpses in life, many still hours; much worthy toil, some deep and noble joys; but, then, there are so many, and such long, intervals, when we are kept from all we want, and must perish but for such thoughts.’

* * * * *

’You need not fear, dear ——­, my doing anything to chill you.  I am only too glad of the pure happiness you so sweetly describe.  I well understand what you say of its invigorating you for every enterprise.  I was always sure it would be so with me,—­that resigned, I could do well, but happy I could do excellently.  Happiness must, with the well-born, expand the generous affections towards all men, and invigorate one to deserve what the gods have given.’

Margaret’s charities and courtesies were not limited to her kindred.  She fell, at once, into agreeable relations with her domestics, became their confidant, teacher, and helper, studied their characters, consulted their convenience, warned them of their dangers or weaknesses, and rejoiced to gratify their worthy tastes; and, in return, no lady could receive, from servants, more punctual or hearty attendance.  She knew how to command and how to persuade, and her sympathy was perfect.  They felt the power of her mind, her hardy directness, prompt judgment, decision and fertility of resource, and liked to aid one who knew so well her own wants.  ‘Around my path,’ she writes,