’There is One above who knows what a trial it is to you.  For myself, hard as it is, and almost too hard sometimes, yet I have relief in the variety and unceasing-multiplicity of my occupations.  Not a moment of any day can I be said to be idle.  Literally, I have not yet had a minute to untie my “Guardians;” but for you, with more time for meditating, with no change of scene, with every object that meets you at home and in your daily walks reminding you of me, it must indeed be such a trial as angels love to look upon when it is borne patiently, and with a perfect assurance that God is ordering all things for our good; and so let us struggle on to the end.  All good powers are on our side, and we shall meet by the infinite mercy one day when there shall be no separation for ever.

’I read on in your letter till I came to “Dear Coley, it is very hard to live without you,”—­and I broke down and cried like a child.  I was quite alone out in the fields on a glorious bright day, and it was the relief I had longed for.  The few simple words told me the whole story, and I prayed with my whole heart that you might find strength in the hour of sadness.  Do (as you say you do) let your natural feelings work; do not force yourself to appear calm, do not get excited if you can help it; but if your mind is oppressed with the thought of my absence, do not try to drive it away by talking about something else, or taking up a book, etc.; follow it out, see what it ends in, trace out the spiritual help and comfort which have already, it may be, resulted from it, the growth of dependence upon God above; meditate upon the real idea of separation, and think of Mamma and Uncle Frank.’

’August 26, 1855, 10.40 P.M.:  S. Stephen’s, Auckland.  ’My dear Arthur,—­I am tired with my Sunday work, which is heavy in a colony, but I just begin my note on the anniversary of your dear, dear father’s death.  How vividly I remember all the circumstances of the last ten days—­the peaceful, holy, happy close of a pure and well-spent life!  I do so think of him, not a day passing without my mind dwelling on him; I love to find myself calling up the image of his dear face, and my heart is very full when I recollect all his love for me, and the many, many tokens of affection which he used to pour out from his warm, generous, loving heart.  I can hardly tell you what an indescribable comfort it is to me now I think of these things, cut off from the society and sympathy of friends and the associations of home; the memory is very active in recalling such scenes, and I almost live in them again.  I have very little time for indulging in fancies of any kind now; I begin to get an idea of what work is; but in my walks or at night (if I am awake), I think of dear Mamma and your dear father, and others who are gone before, with unmixed joy and comfort.  You may be quite sure that I am not likely to forget anybody or anything connected with home.  How I do watch and follow them through the hours of the day or night when we are both awake and at our work!  I turn out at 6.45, and think of them at dinner or tea; at 10, I think of them at evening prayers; and by my own bed-time they are in morning church or busied about their different occupations, and I fancy I can almost see them.