boy who bore his
name--he was tenderly associated. It is not strange, therefore, that his
death, as well as the wearisome years of invalidism which preceded it,
touched her deeply. What manner of man he was; how gifted, wise and
large-hearted; how devoted to the cause of his Lord and Saviour; what a
leader and master-workman in sacred science and in the Church of Christ;
how worthy of love and admiration--all this may be seen and read
elsewhere. [15]

_To Mrs. Condict, Feb. 14, 1877._

Before I go down to the meeting at Mrs. D.'s I must have a little chat
with you, in reply to your last two letters. I felt like shrieking aloud
when you contrasted your life with mine. But it is impossible to state
fully why. Yet I may say one thing; I have had to learn what I teach in
loneliness, suffering, conflict, and dismay, which I do not believe you
have physical strength to bear. The true story of my life will never be
written. But whatever you do, don't envy it. And I do not mean by that,
that I am a disappointed, unhappy woman; _far from it_. But I enjoy and
suffer intensely, and one insulting word about Greylock, for instance,
goes on stinging and cutting me, amid forgetfulness of hundreds of kind
ones. [16] Let us take our lot in life just as it comes, courageously,
patiently, and faithfully, never wondering at anything the Master does.
I am concerned just as you are about my interest in things of time and
sense. But I have not the faintest doubt that if we could have all we
want in Christ, inferior objects would fade and fall. But we live in a
strange world, amid many claims on time and thought; we can not dwell
in a convent, and must dwell among human beings, and fall more or less
under their influence. We shall get out of all this by and by. _Feb.
27th._--This winter I am drawing in charcoal under an accomplished
teacher; she has so large a class that I had to withdraw from it and
take private lessons. She has invited A. to assist her in teaching
little ones twice a week, which materially curtails her bill. A. was
introduced to one youth, aged five, as _Monsieur_ So and So; he had his
easel, his big portfolio, and charcoal, in great style, but only took
one lesson, he hated it so. I don't see what his mother was made of. I
sympathise with your fear of spending too much time adorning your home,
etc., etc. It is a nice question how far to go and how far to stay. But
I honestly believe that a bare, blank, prosaic house makes