peech. She fell into the way of looking
for me and expecting me, and often when I saw her, far in the night, at
her window holding out her very thin hands in supplication, I would softly
raise my own window and say kindly, "Don't thee think thee could sleep if
thee tried, friend Jordan?"--"I will try, Quaker," she would say, and go
in and close the window, and remain quiet for the rest of the night. It
was a sad contrast, I am sure--she wild and uncontrollable from
self-government, and I held in and still by discipline of many ancestors.
And then when she found that her cavilling against the Lord and His mighty
works was the opposite of pleasant to me, and made me sad of visage, she
after a while would content herself to say, "I used to say" so and so, as
the case might be, "but now I doubt myself;" which was more comforting.

But there came a letter from friend Hicks; and after much talk concerning
a certain lot of lumber and other matters of business, he said, "My
daughter is not looking healthful, and is not so well as could be
desired." I do not know what made me forget all the rest of his letter but
that one line. It seemed to me that I was stricken with pain with that
thin black miracle--pen-and-ink words. I wrote a letter to him instantly;
I put aside all modesty of demeanor and spoke only of Barbara, of my
desire to have her well and cheerful; I never once in all my lines
mentioned business. Friend Hicks must have been sensibly astonished. That
night when I went home friend Jordan for the first time grated upon me,
and I would fain have gone into my room and closed the door and thought
long and painfully. In my flighty mind I saw Barbara pining, and for me!
Never before had I thought she cared so well for me as now when she was
not in fair health. It is a sad happiness to think that some dear one is
far from thee, and heavy of heart all for thee. But I was selfish, for I
heard a sob at my closed door, and friend Jordan was crouched on the sill.
"Have _you_ deserted me too?" she asked.

"Nay, friend," I replied, "but I had sad news which left me beyond much
comfort."

"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort
me,'" she said.

"Will thee touch my hand?" I tried to say, for my voice was quite broken.
"Comfort!"

And so we talked long and tirelessly: she seemed in her sanest mind, and
something in me appeared to