morning he had changed sadly. He grew ill and lost flesh and
strength very fast, and no remedies seemed to have the least effect on
his disorder, which was one induced by teething.... For myself I did not
believe anything could now save my precious baby, and had given him to
God so unreservedly, that I was not conscious of even a wish for his
life.... When at last we saw evident tokens of returning health and
strength, we felt that we received him a second time as from the grave.
To me he never seemed the same child. My darling Eddy was lost to me and
another--_and yet the same_--filled his place. I often said afterward
that a little stranger was running about my nursery, not mine, but
God's. Indeed, I can't describe the peculiar feelings with which I
always regarded him after this sickness, nor how the thought constantly
met me, "He is not mine; he is God's." Every night I used to thank Him
for sparing him to me one day longer; thus truly enjoying him _a day at
a time_.

An extract from a letter to Miss Lord, written on the anniversary of her
mother's death, will close the account of this year.

If I were in Portland now, I should go right down to see you. I feel
just like having a dear, old-fashioned talk with you. I was thinking how
many times death had entered that old Richmond circle of which you and I
once formed a part; Mrs. Persico, Susan, Charlotte Ford, Kate Kennedy,
and now our own dearest Lotty, all gone. I can not tell you how much I
miss and grieve for Lotty. [9] I can not be thankful enough that I went
to Portland in the summer and had that last week with her, nor for her
most precious visit here last winter. Whenever you think of any little
thing she said, I want you to write it down for me, no matter whether
it seems worth writing or not. I know by experience how precious such
things are. This is a sad day to me. Indeed, all of this month has been
so, recalling as it has done, all I was suffering at this time last
year, and all my dear mother was then suffering. I can hardly realise
that she has been in heaven a whole year, and that I feel her loss as
vividly as if it were but yesterday--indeed, more so. I do not feel that
this affliction has done me the good that it ought to have done and that
I hoped it would. As far as I have any excuse it lies in my miserable
health. I want so much to be more of a Christian; to live a life of
constant devotion. Do tell me, when you write, if you have such troubled