find it
hard to consent to your having, at your age, to flit about from home to
home, but a loving Father has a mansion for you beyond all the changes
and chances of this strange complicated life. If He gives you His
presence, that will be a home. I wish you could visit us at Dorset.

A visit to Dorset was afterward arranged, and one of Mrs. Prentiss' last
letters was addressed to this old friend, giving her directions how to
get there. [3]

_To Mrs. Condict, New York, May 6, 1878._ My last Bible-reading, or
rather one of the last, was on prayer; as I could not do justice to
it in one reading, I concluded to make a resume of the whole subject.
Though I devoted all the readings to this topic last summer, yet it
loomed up wonderfully in this resume. Last week the subject was "the
precious blood of Christ," and in studying up the word "precious" I
lighted on these lovely verses, Deut. xxxiii. 13-16. Since I began to
_study_ the Bible, it often seems like a new book. And that passage
thrilled the ladies, as a novelty. I am to have but one more reading.
The last sermon I heard was on lying. That is not one of my besetting
sins, but, on the other hand, I push the truth too far, haggling about
evils better let alone. A. has just finished a splendid placque to
order; a Japanese figure, with exquisite foliage in black and grey as
background. I have a widow lady every Saturday to paint with me; she has
a large family, limited means, and delicate health; and I want to aid
her all I can. She enjoys these afternoons so much, and is doing so
well.

The lady herself thus recalls these afternoons:

How dearly I should love to add but one little flower to her wreath of
immortelles! I cherish memories of her as among the pleasantest of my
life. I recall her room so bright and cheery, just like herself, and all
the incidents of those Saturday afternoons. When she first asked me to
paint with her, I thought it very kind, but with her multiplicity of
cares, felt it must be burdensome to her, and that possibly she would
even forget the invitation, and so I hesitated about going. But when the
week came round everything was made ready to give me a cordial welcome.
Again and again I found my chair, palette and other materials waiting
for me, while she sat in her little nook, busy as a bee over some
painting of her own.

One day, passing about the room, I saw on her book-shelves, arranged
with order and precision, nine little butter plates