friendly arms, and the scent of every humblest herb was like a
word of love. The waves, also, at that moment put on a silvery
gleam, and looked most soft and regretful. That was a real
voice from nature.'

* * * * *

'_February_, 1842.--I am deeply sad at the loss of little
Waldo, from whom I hoped more than from almost any living
being. I cannot yet reconcile myself to the thought that the
sun shines upon the grave of the beautiful blue-eyed boy, and
I shall see him no more.

'Five years he was an angel to us, and I know not that any
person was ever more the theme of thought to me. As I walk the
streets they swarm with apparently worthless lives, and the
question will rise, why he, why just he, who "bore within
himself the golden future," must be torn away? His father
will meet him again; but to me he seems lost, and yet that is
weakness. I _must_ meet that which he represented, since I
so truly loved it. He was the only child I ever saw, that I
sometimes wished I could have called mine.

'I loved him more than any child I ever knew, as he was of
nature more fair and noble. You would be surprised to know how
dear he was to my imagination. I saw him but little, and it
was well; for it is unwise to bind the heart where there is
no claim. But it is all gone, and is another of the lessons
brought by each year, that we are to expect suggestions only,
and not fulfilments, from each form of beauty, and to regard
them merely as Angels of The Beauty.'

* * * * *

'_June, 1842._--Why must children be with perfect people, any
more than people wait to be perfect to be friends? The secret
is,--is it not?--for parents to feel and be willing their
children should know that they are but little older than
themselves: only a class above, and able to give them some
help in learning their lesson. Then parent and child keep
growing together, in the same house. Let them blunder as we
blundered. God is patient for us; why should not we be for
them? Aspiration teaches always, and God leads, by inches. A
perfect being would hurt a child no less than an imperfect.'

* * * * *

'It always makes my annoyances seem light, to be riding about
to visit these fine houses. Not that I am intolerant tow