itself in Mr. P.'s shoulder. I dislike this climate and am
very suspicious of it. Everybody has a horrible cold, or the rheumatism,
or fever and ague. Mr. Prentiss says if I get the latter, he shall be
off for New England in a twinkling. I think he is as well as can be
expected while the death of his brother continues so fresh in his
remembrance. All the old cheerfulness, which used to sustain me amid
sickness and trouble, has gone from him. But God has ordered the iron to
enter his soul, and it is not for me to resist that will. Our children
are well. We have had much comfort in them both this winter. Mother
Prentiss is renewing her youth, it is so pleasant to her to have us all
near her. (Eddy and A. are hovering about me, making such a noise that I
can hardly write. Eddy says, "When I was tired, _Poor_ tarried me.") Mr.
Poor carries all before him. [13] He is _very_ popular throughout
the city, and I believe Mrs. P. is much admired by their people. Mr.
Prentiss is preaching every Sabbath evening, as Dr. Condit is able to
preach every morning now. I feel as much at home as I possibly could
anywhere in the same time, but instead of mourning less for my New
Bedford friends, I mourn more and more every day.

To Mrs. Allen she writes, Feb. 21:

I know all about those depressed moods, when it costs one as much to
smile, or to give a pleasant answer, as it would at other times to make
a world. What a change it will be to us poor sickly, feeble, discouraged
ones, when we find ourselves where there is neither pain or lassitude or
fatigue of the body, or sorrow or care or despondency of the mind!

I miss you more and more. People here are kind and excellent and
friendly, but I can not make them, as yet, fill the places of the
familiar faces I have left in New Bedford. I am all the time walking
through our neighborhood, dropping into Deacon Barker's or your house,
or welcoming some of you into our old house on the corner. Eddy is
pretty well. He is a sweet little boy, gentle and docile. He learns to
talk very fast, and is crazy to learn hymns. He says, "Tinkle, tinkle
_leetleeverybody_, and give 'tatoes to beggar boys." Mother Prentiss
seems to _thrive_ on having us all about her. She lives so far off that
I see her seldom, but Mr. P. goes every day, except Sundays, when
he can't go--rain or shine, tired or not tired, convenient or not
convenient. Since my mother's death he has felt that he must do quickly
whatever he has to