be thankful.  I never perhaps shall know fully how it is, but somehow, as a matter of fact, I am on the whole cheerful, and always busy and calm in mind.  I don’t have tumultuous bursts of feeling and overwhelming floods of recollection that sweep right away all composure.  Your first letters upset me more than once as I re-read them, but I think of you all habitually with real joy and peace of mind.  And I am really happy, not in the sense that happiness presents itself always, or exactly in the way that I used to feel it when with you all, or as I should feel it if I were walking up to the lodge with my whole heart swelling within me.  It is much more quiet and subdued, and does not perhaps come and go quite as much; but yet in the midst of all, I half doubt sometimes whether everything about and within me is real.  I just move on like a man in a dream, but this again does not make me idle.  I don’t suppose I ever worked harder, on the whole, than I do now, and I have much anxious work at the Hospital.  Such cases, Fan!  Only two hours ago, I left a poor sailor, by whose side I had been kneeling near three-quarters of an hour, holding his sinking head and moistening his mouth with wine, the dews of death on his forehead, and his poor emaciated frame heaving like one great pulse at each breath.  For four days that he has been there (brought in a dying state from the Merchantman) I have been with him, and yesterday I administered to him the Holy Communion.  He had spoken earnestly of his real desire to testify the sincerity of his repentance and faith and love.  I have been there daily for nine days, but I cannot always manage it, as it is nearly two miles off.  The responsibility is great of dealing with such cases, but I trust that God will pardon all my sad mistakes.  I cannot withhold the Bread of Life when I see indications of real sorrow for sin, and the simple readiness to obey the command of Christ, even though there is great ignorance and but little time to train a soul for heaven.  I cannot, as you may suppose, prepare for my Sunday work as I ought to do, from want of time.  Last Sunday I had three whole services, besides reading the Communion Service and preaching at 11 A.M., and reading Prayers at 5 P.M.  I should have preached five times but that I left my sermon at Mr. T.’s, thinking to go back for it....  Mrs. K. gave me an old “Woolmer” the other day, which gladdened my eyes.  Little bits of comfort come in, you see, in these ways.  Nothing can be kinder than the people here, I mean in Auckland and its neighbourhood—­real, simple, hearty kindness.  Perhaps the work at Kohimarama is most irksome to me.  It is no joke to keep sailors in good humour ashore, and I fear that our presence on board was much needed during the passage out.’