Jane wrote you that I had had a slight attack of pneumonia, so you understood why I was obliged to let so long a time go by without sending you a letter.  Though I have been out of bed now for more than a fortnight, I still feel so weak and good for nothing that I am hardly equal to the exertion of writing.  Then, too, I have had some trouble with my wrist—­the right one—­and this has made it really painful for me to hold a pen or even a fork.  The doctor thinks it is a nervous affection and that it will pass away as soon as I get back my strength, and I am sure I hope and pray that it will.  But sometimes I feel as if I should never get any stronger, and of course while my wrist is crippled I am unable to do any sewing.  This has depressed me very much, for poor Jane has so many worries of her own that I dread being dependent on her, and Charley has not been at all well this winter, though kinder and more considerate than I have ever known him to be.  He has his faults, but I have always felt that he was not entirely responsible and that we ought to pity rather than blame him.  Women can never be too thankful that they are spared by a merciful Providence the temptations which seem to beset men.  When we consider how much more sheltered our lives are, we ought to be lenient in our judgment, and I cannot help feeling that God meant us to be so when he gave us more spiritual natures than those of men.  Dr. Preston gave a very instructive and impressive talk on that subject before the Ladies’ Aid Society of our church the week before I was taken sick.  Indeed, I am afraid I caught the cold that led to pneumonia sitting in Charley’s pew, which gets a bad draught from the door of the Sunday-school room.

I must apologize for this dull letter, as I haven’t been able to get out even to market.  Before I was taken ill I used to do all of Jane’s marketing, and you know what a place the market is for meeting people and hearing all the latest news.  There are, however, two things to tell you, and you’ll never be able to guess them.  First, poor Miss Amelia Peterborough is dead.  She was stricken with paralysis a week ago when she was all alone in the house—­Miss Jemima was at a funeral—­and she never regained consciousness until the end, which came at three o’clock Sunday night.  Poor Miss Jemima, I feel so sorry for her.  She keeps up beautifully and is very pious and resigned.  They say she will go into the Old Ladies’ Home as soon as the arrangements can be made.

The other piece of news is more cheerful, though, for my part, life seems so short and so uncertain that I can’t see much cheerfulness anywhere.  So many people are dying that you can’t help wondering who will be next, and as Dr. Preston said when he called on me during my illness, our only substantial hope is in a blessed hereafter.  My one regret will be leaving my children and grandchildren, and especially my precious little Frances Evelyn, whom I have