th birthday is upon me. I am sitting in the room where, since
the day of our wedding, all of my best thoughts have been written. Sharp
winds blow around our dwelling, but our hearts heed not their harsh
voices. Louis and I have been retrospecting to-day, reading together the
journal of the past two years. We have kept it together, devoting two
pages to each day, each of us writing one. It is not uninteresting; many
changes have been dotted down; and still, to look in upon us, you could
not see them. Here is the date of one, the death of good Mr. Davis, and
an account of the sermon preached by Louis at his funeral, the
witnessing of his last experience among us, and the blessed comfort it
gave us, as with his death-cold lips he murmured, "My wife." Clara and
all, he saw their beckoning hands and angelic faces. He heard sweet
music blending with our voices as we sang to him at his request.

"It is enough; let us rejoice together," said Louis, "for he has gone to
his own, and he shall have no more pain forever."

On another page we read of the children's harvest gathered, and also of
their Christmas festivities, of the prosperous condition of the school,
and the untiring diligence of the scholars; extracts from lectures given
by John at the schoolhouse, and the date of his first lecture in the
Quaker city, Philadelphia; sorrowful records of the battles fought and
gained; a sad story of Willie Goodwin, who was taken prisoner by the
Confederates, and came home, poor fellow, only to die; news from our
Southern Mary in her Pennsylvania home, and an account of her visit to
us, bringing with her Louise, a pet girl, once owned by her father. I
saw John looking at her sharply, and with undisguised admiration, and I
thought, perhaps, when Ben's wedding day had passed, John might have
one. I could say truthfully, "I hope he will."

No matter how many or great the changes, the robins still build their
nests in the elm tree, and the grass still grows to cover the earth of
brown with its emerald mantle; for what care the daisies and the grapes,
if the hand of the reaper bids them bow before his trusty blade? The
life is at their roots, and their flowers and blades will come again. So
with our hearts; they are as hopeful as in the earlier days, ere we had
lost sight of some of our jewels, and it is true our love has deathless
roots.

Louis grows more blessed all the while. The step of my mother is slow,
and father bends to bear the b