And now, seeing that there is not one experience in this volume which is not, or may not be, enjoyed, and surpassed, by every dying saint, and by surviving friends, and as the narrative is thus saved from all just thought either of ostentation, or of setting forth a discouraging standard of experience, may the book find protection from those who, knowing the innocent weaknesses, and, at the same time, the blessedness, of those who mourn, will kindly appreciate the motives with which it is written.  For more than a year the narrative has been laid by, from indefinable reluctance at the thought of publication.  But this affliction, which was, at first, like the bulb of the hyacinth with its white, pendulous roots in water,—­those symbols of hope and pledges of growth,—­has now bloomed and become fragrant with such comforts and consolations, that we venture to set the plant in our window, perchance it may meet the eye of one and another as they walk and are sad.  Perhaps it may, here and there, win love and praise for Jesus.  “He hath done all things well.”