d water" from
the hand of a loving, gentle, sympathizing friend, does more to
alleviate suffering than rich gifts bestowed by the unfeeling and the
proud; than many luxuries provided by the harsh and exacting.

I have first particularized, and then drawn a contrast, my dear
children, that you may be the better able to see the beauty and
excellency of true goodness; and that, like your grandfather, who has
gone to reap the reward, through grace, of a well-spent life, you may
be self-denying, gentle, loving, and kind.

Devotedly yours, GRANDMA.

Belmont, January, 1861.

Letter Seven

My Dear Grandchildren:

With a return of comparative good health, "grandma" is again
enabled to resume her duties as housekeeper, and is daily seen, with
"grandpa," presiding at their family board. Our sisters and brothers,
with two young men from "the store," (who, from motives of economy,
board with us), and our little daughter, who sits to the left of her
father, in her baby dining-chair, constitute the family. How cheerful
the scene, after months of sickness and anxiety! "Grandpa," at least,
is radiant with happiness and good-humor. No unpleasant word or look is
seen or heard during our family repast. Perhaps an awkward boy upsets
his cup of coffee, but the quaint remark, "accidents will happen in the
best regulated families," spoken with a native courtesy, rarely seen,
restores his equilibrium; and thus peacefully, (in the main), day after
day passes along, although many little perplexities and cares arise,
such as every family are subject to, especially where there are sons
just entering the dangerous and tempting paths of youth.

In my particular duties and unavoidable anxieties I had a warm
and sympathizing friend, and a good counsellor, in the person of my
precious husband. But I felt that I needed more than this to sustain me
in the cares, and trials, and sorrows of life. And, besides, I carried
about with me a troubled conscience. For, at the commencement of my
illness, in the fall of 1832, I was perfectly aware of the approach of
danger, and, as I took a look from this world into Eternity, all was
dark and void, and the thought of having to meet death thus alarmed me.
While a raging fever was fast making me wild, I drew the sheet up over
my face, and said, "Let me be quiet." All was stilled, no sound being
heard, save an occasional whisper from some loved one, (who was too
anxious to be mute), and my own