In glancing over this, I see that I have here and there repeated myself.  Do excuse it.  I believe it is owing to the way the flies harass and distract me.

August 17th.—­I feel truly grateful to God if I have been of any comfort to you.  I know only too well the shock of seeing professors of even sinless perfection guilty of what I consider sinful sin, and my whole soul was so staggered that for some days I could not pray, but could only say, “O God, if there be any God, come to my rescue.” ...  But God loves better than He knows us, and foresaw every infidelity before He called us to Himself.  Nothing in us takes Him, therefore, by surprise.  Fenelon teaches what no other writer does—­to be “patient with ourselves,” and I think as you penetrate into the Christian life, you will agree with him on every point as I do.

August 19th.—­I have had a couple of rather sickish days since writing the above, but am all right again now.  Hot weather does not agree with me.  I used to reproach myself for religious stupidity when not well, but see now that God Is my kind Father—­not my hard taskmaster, expecting me to be full of life and zeal when physically exhausted.  It takes long to learn such lessons.  One has to penetrate deeply into the heart of Christ to begin to know its tenderness and sympathy and forbearance.

You can’t imagine how Miss K. has luxuriated in her visit, nor how good she thinks we all are.  She holds views to which I can not quite respond, but I do not condemn or reject them.  She is a modest, praying, devoted woman; not disposed to obtrude, much less to urge her opinions; full of Christian charity and forbearance; and I am truly thankful that she prays for me and mine; in fact, she loves to pray so, that when she gets hold of a new case, she acts as one does who has found a treasure.

I wish you were looking out with me on the beautiful array of mountains to be seen from every window of our house and breathing this delicious air.

September 25th.—­We expect now to go home on Friday next, though if I had known how early the foliage was going to turn this year, I should have planned to stay a week longer to see it in all its glory.  It is looking very beautiful even now, and our eyes have a perpetual feast.  We have had a charming summer, but one does not want to play all the time, and I hope God has work of some sort for me to do at home during the winter.  Meanwhile, I wish I could send you a photograph of the little den where I am now writing, and the rustic adornings which make it sui generis, and the bit of woods to be seen from its windows, that, taking the lead of all other Dorset woods, have put on floral colors, just because they are ours and know we want them looking their best before we go away.  But this wish must yield to fate, like many another; and, as I have come to the end of my paper, I will love and leave you.

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