Many and many a time, if it please God, I shall look to him in difficulties, and remember how nearly once he was lost to me.  I can get away with the greatest ease for a few days on Thursday if desirable, and perhaps old Jem will feel low after this, when you have left him.  I think this very likely, from what I know of him, and if you think it too, without asking him if he would like it, I will come up for some other reason.  You will not go, I know, unless he is perfectly well; but he might, and I think would, like to have some one with him just at first.  Let me know what you think.

’Good-bye, my dearest father.

’Ever your affectionate and dutiful son,

‘J.  C. Patteson.’

’Merton, Shrove Tuesday.

’My dearest Joan and Fan,—­How we must all have united this morning in pouring out our thanks to God for His great mercy!  You will not suspect me of being wanting in love to you, if I say that the contemplation of what might have happened presented such a scene of desolation, such a void, that it would have required all the strength I possess to turn to God in resignation and submission to His will.  I have often, very often, thought of that illness at Geneva, but this brought it home to me, perhaps closer still; and I hope I shall never cease to be mindful of, and thankful for, this special providence.  Father seems pretty confident that all mischief is prevented; and Jem wrote six hours after he took the laudanum, and had then felt no drowsiness to speak of, and Dr. Watson said there was no fear of anything happening after two hours had elapsed.

’I should like to join with you in showing our gratitude by some deed of charity, or whatever you think right.  Something that without any show might be a thank-offering to God for His signal act of mercy.

’Ever your loving Brother,

’J.  C. Patteson.

’5.30.  I wrote this quite early this morning.  I can hardly think yet what it all means.  Now, I feel only a sense of some very heavy affliction removed.  Poor dear Father, and all of us! what should we have been without him!’

A letter to the brother himself was written under the same impulse, even more tenderly affectionate, but so deep and intimate, that it would almost be treason to give it to the world.  The next letter was written soon after the alarm had passed, but is undated:—­

’My dear Fan,—­Yesterday I was unluckily too seedy with headache to go on the ice, and this morning I have been skating for half an hour, but the ice is spoilt.  Very jolly it is to be twisting and turning about once more.  I thought of writing to old Jem to come down for it, as I should think the frost is not severe enough to freeze any but the shallow water of the floods, but it was not good enough to reward him for the trouble of coming so far.