to his children,—­affected me to tears at the time, although I could not foresee how dear and consolatory this extravagant expression of regard would very soon become.  The family were deeply moved by the fervency of his prayer of thanksgiving, on the Sunday morning when I was somewhat recovered; and to mother he said, “I have no room for a painful thought now that our daughter is restored.”

’For myself, I thought I should die; but I was calm, and looked to God without fear.  When I remembered how much struggle awaited me if I remained, and how improbable it was that any of my cherished plans would bear fruit, I felt willing to go.  But Providence did not so will it.  A much darker dispensation for our family was in store.’

DEATH OF HER FATHER.

’On the evening of the 30th of September, 1835, my father was seized with cholera, and on the 2d of October, was a corpse.  For the first two days, my grief, under this calamity, was such as I dare not speak of.  But since my father’s head is laid in the dust, I feel an awful calm, and am becoming familiar with the thoughts of being an orphan.  I have prayed to God that duty may now be the first object, and self set aside.  May I have light and strength to do what is right, in the highest sense, for my mother, brothers, and sister. * *

’It has been a gloomy week, indeed.  The children have all been ill, and dearest mother is overpowered with sorrow, fatigue, and anxiety.  I suppose she must be ill too, when the children recover.  I shall endeavor to keep my mind steady, by remembering that there is a God, and that grief is but for a season.  Grant, oh Father, that neither the joys nor sorrows of this past year shall have visited my heart in vain!  Make me wise and strong for the performance of immediate duties, and ripen me, by what means Thou seest best, for those which lie beyond.

’My father’s image follows me constantly.  Whenever I am in my room, he seems to open the door, and to look on me with a complacent, tender smile.  What would I not give to have it in my power, to make that heart once more beat with joy!  The saddest feeling is the remembrance of little things, in which I have fallen short of love and duty.  I never sympathized in his liking for this farm, and secretly wondered how a mind which had, for thirty years, been so widely engaged in the affairs of men, could care so much for trees and crops.  But now, amidst the beautiful autumn days, I walk over the grounds, and look with painful emotions at every little improvement.  He had selected a spot to place a seat where I might go to read alone, and had asked me to visit it.  I contented myself with “When you please, father;” but we never went!  What would I not now give, if I had fixed a time, and shown more interest!  A day or two since, I went there.  The tops of the distant blue hills were veiled in delicate autumn haze; soft silence brooded