daughter on the 20th, and when they leave Mr.
P. intends to go to Maine and try a change of air and scene. I hate to
have him go; his trouble of last year keeps me uneasy, if he is long out
of my sight.

_To the Same, Dorset, Aug., 1875._

I have just written a letter to my husband, from whom I have been
separated a whole day. He has gone to Maine, partly to see friends,
partly to get a little sea air. He wanted me to go with him, but it
would have ended in my getting down sick. This summer I am encompassed
with relatives; two of my brothers, a nephew, a cousin, a second cousin,
and in a day or two one brother's wife and child, and two more second
cousins are to come; not to our house, but to board next door. There is
a troop of artists swarming the tavern; all ladies, some of them very
congenial, cultivated, excellent persons. They are all delighted with
Dorset, and it is pleasant to stumble on little groups of them at their
work. A. has been out sketching with them and succeeds very well. I have
given up painting landscapes and taken to flowers. I have just had a
visit here in my room from three humming-birds. They are attracted by
the flowers... One of the cousins is just now riding on the lawn. Her
splendid hair has come down and covers her shoulders; and with her
color, always lovely, heightened by exercise and pleasure, she makes a
beautiful picture. What is nicer than an unsophisticated young girl? I
have no time for reading this summer among the crowd; but one can not
help thinking wherever one is, and I have come to this conclusion:
happiness in its strictest sense is found only in Christ; at the same
time there are many sources of enjoyment independently of Him. It is
getting dark and I can not see my lines. I am more and more puzzled
about good people making such mistakes. Dr. Stearns says that the Rev.
Mr. ---- has been laying his hands on people and saying, "Receive the
Holy Ghost." Such excesses give me great doubt and pain.

_To the Same, Sept. 3, 1875._

Your letter came to find me in a sorrowful and weary spot. My dear M.
lies here with typhoid fever, and my heart and soul and body are in less
than a fortnight of it pretty well used up, and my husband is in almost
as bad a case with double anxiety, he and A. expecting every hour to see
me break down. It has been an awful pull for us all, for not one of us
has an atom of health to spare, and only keep about by avoiding all the
wear and tear we can.