I have been greatly delighted with a present of one of my father’s cuff-buttons (which I well remember), and a lock of his hair....  I haven’t got anything more to say.  Oh, Mrs. ——­ left that on her card here the other day, and we called on her this afternoon.  What a jolly old lady she is!  Of course, anybody could believe in perfection who was as fat and well as she!

To Mrs. Leonard, New York, April 5, 1869

If I should send you a letter every time I send you a thought, you would be quite overwhelmed with them.  Now that Mrs. S. has gone away, and some of my pressing cares are over, I miss you more than ever.  We have had a good deal to sadden us this winter, beginning with your sorrow, which was also ours; and Eva P.’s death, occurring as it did in our house, was a distressing one.  She was here about a fortnight, and the first week came down to her meals, though she kept in her room the rest of the time.  On Tuesday night of the second week she was at the tea-table, and played a duet with A. after tea.  Soon after she was taken with distress for breath, and was never in bed again, but sat nearly double in a chair, with one of us supporting her head.  It was agonizing suffering to witness, and the care of her was more laborious than anyone can conceive, who did not witness or participate in it.  We had at last to have six on hand to relieve each other.  She died on Saturday, after four terrible days and nights.  We knew she would die here when they first proposed her coming, but did not like to refuse her last desire, and are very glad we had the privilege of ministering to her last wants....  For you I desire but one thing—­a full possession of Christ.  Let us turn away our eyes from everything that does not directly exalt Him in our affections; we are poor without Him, no matter what our worldly advantages are; rich with Him when stripped of all besides.  Still I know you are passing through deep waters, and at times must well nigh sink.  But your loving Saviour will not let you sink, and He never loved you so well as He does now.  How often I long to fly to you in your lonely hours!  But I can not, and so I turn these longings into prayers.  I hope you pray for me, too.  You could not give me anything I should value so much, and it is a great comfort to me to know that you love me.  I care more to be loved than to be admired, don’t you?  I hope that by next winter you may feel that you can come and see us; I want to see you, not merely to write to you and get answers.  I send you a picture of our nest at Dorset.  Good-bye.

To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, April 20, 1869