* * * * *
The baby here is beautiful. He looks like his father, and smiles so
sweetly on all hearty, good people. I play with him a good deal, and
he comes so _natural,_ after Dante and other poets.
Ever faithfully your friend.
* * * * *
TO THE SAME.
1887.
MY BELOVED CHILD: I was very glad to get your note. Do not think you
must only write to your friends when you can tell them you are happy;
they will not misunderstand you in the dark hour, nor think you
_forsaken_, if cast down. Though your letter of Wednesday was
very sweet to me, yet I knew it could not last as it was then. These
hours of heavenly, heroic strength leave us, but they come again:
their memory is with us amid after-trials, and gives us a foretaste of
that era when the steadfast soul shall be the only reality.
My dearest, you must suffer, but you will always be growing stronger,
and with every trial nobly met, you will feel a growing assurance that
nobleness is not a mere _sentiment_ with you. I sympathize deeply
in your anxiety about your mother; yet I cannot but remember the
bootless fear and agitation about my mother, and how strangely our
destinies were guided.
Pages:
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404