the new scenes of life
which I have witnessed, since that cold frosty morning
when I left you, have tended to make me value more
than ever that precious treasure of household love. Oh,
what were life without it? a wilderness indeed! and
well is it worth all the pangs which it may cost us in
this cold world. It is cheering to think of them as
caused by contact of something warm within, as with
the cold without; and far better it is to bear, than to be
cooled down to the temperature of earth's raw air. Thou
wilt wonder perhaps at my writing in this way; but with
me, though I may seem cold and dull in the common
way, there comes a day, every now and then, when I find

"New depths of love, in measure unsuspected,
Ties closer than I knew were round my heart."--

And though they are saddened by many a regret for
neglects and omissions and commissions toward you all,
and that old petrifying selfishness which only grace can
cure, I would not be without such days, and almost
thank "each wrench which has detected how thoroughly
and deeply dear you are." I can hardly tell you what
the thought of leaving N. and F. is to me, but this dark
day begins to shadow itself.

* * * Poor dear old A.G.! What a change from
her dark corner to everlasting day!--but not less from a
kingly palace, if we knew the truth; and her shadowy
abode had more light than many a palace, if we knew
the truth of that too.

She remarks in her Journal, after her return home:--

I stayed at Ipswich three weeks after the birth
of my precious little niece, Frances Elizabeth; rejoicing
in her daily growth, and calm trustful fearlessness--a
lesson which nothing ever preached to
me so loudly before. Respecting my spiritual state
at Ipswich, I would say that great blessings, and I
would fear great ingratitude, must be acknowledged.
Some evening hours in my chamber were exceeding
sweet, and some meetings solemn indeed. * * *
I returned in rich and flowing peace. Many a lesson
I had through my four months' absence, but none
like that which awaited my return. My father met
me at Plymouth; we reached home about eleven
o'clock at night, and went at once to the chamber,
where four months previously I last heard the voice
of my uncle, and, though he still breathed, I was
not to hear it again. He had sunk gradually for
weeks, and now, though his lips moved a little, a