ith reading aloud _The Heir of Redcliffe_. It
is one of those novels of the day that seem to me to preach, as few
preachers do, the true Gospel doctrine. It is so cleverly, so charmingly
written, that one is persuaded of the Christian truths of forgiveness
and self-sacrifice, vitalized in the lives of Guy and Amy, without one
thought or argument bristling up against them, as they sometimes do
against the ordained preacher. I will try to imitate Amy in her cheerful
submission to a disappointment far heavier than mine--for the husband
must be dearer than the lover.

You think me cool, dear friend; I am only trying to be so, and how far I
shall succeed I doubt, as a cold shivering runs through my veins as I
hear the winds and think of Carl on the ocean.

I laid down my pen. I perceive my father watches me very narrowly. 'My
child,' he said, 'you are shaking with cold,' (not with 'cold,' I could
have answered;) 'these confounded stoves,' he added, 'keep one in an
alternate ague and fever; come, waltz round the room with your sister,
and get into a glow.' So, singing our own music, we waltzed till we were
out of breath; and Alice has seated herself at picquet with my father,
who has a run of luck, 'point! seizieme! and capote!' which puts him
into high good humor--and I may write unmarked, and let my thoughts,
unbridled, fly off after Carl. He was to write me once more before his
embarkation, but I can not get the letter till we return, and I have not
the poor consolation of looking over the list of the steamer's
passengers and seeing the strange names of those who would seem to me
happy enough to be in the same ship with him--and yet, what care they
for that! Poor fellow! he will be but sorry company, I know. I find
support in the faith that I am doing my duty. He could not see it in
that light, and had neither comfort for himself nor sympathy for me. I
almost wish now, when I think of him in his desolation, that I could
receive the worldly philosophy my old nurse offered me when, as Carl
drove away, she came into my room and found me crying bitterly. She
hushed me tenderly as she was used to do when I was a child; and when I
said, 'Hannah, it is for him, not for myself, I feel'--'Oh! that's
nothing but a nonsense, child,' she said, 'men an't that way; they go
about among folks and get rid of feelings; it's women that stay at home
and keep 'em alive, brooding on 'em!' Will he soon 'get rid' of them?

Why should I thus shr