rk. There was something about the
child, a sweetness and a clinging, almost wild, devotion to his father,
which, together with his motherless state, touched his aunt to the quick
and called forth her tenderest love. Many a page of Stepping Heavenward
was written with this child in her arms; and perhaps that is one secret
of its power. When, not very long afterwards, he went to his mother,
Mrs. Prentiss wrote to the father:

Only this morning I was trying to invent some way of framing my little
picture of Francis, so as to see it every day before my eyes. And now
this evening's mail brings your letter, and I am trying to believe what
it says is true. If grief and pain could comfort you, you would be
comforted; we all loved Francis, and A. has always said he was too
lovely to live. How are you going to bear this new blow? My heart aches
as it asks the question, aches and trembles for you. But perhaps you
loved him so, that you will come to be willing to have him in his dear
mother's safe keeping; will bear your own pain in future because through
your anguish your lamb is sheltered forever, to know no more pain, to
suffer no more for lack of womanly care, and is already developing into
the rare character which made him so precious to you. Oh do try to
rejoice for him while you can not but mourn for yourself. At the longest
you will not have long to suffer; we are a short-lived race.

But while I write I feel that I want some one to speak a comforting word
to me; I too am bereaved in the death of this precious child, and my
sympathy for you is in itself a pang. Dear little lamb! I can not
realise that I shall never see that sweet face again in this world; but
I shall see it in heaven. God bless and comfort you, my dear afflicted
brother. I dare not weary you with words which all seem a mockery; I can
only assure you of my tenderest love and sympathy, and that we all feel
with and for you as only those can who know what this child was to you.
I am going to bed with an aching heart, praying that light may spring
out of this darkness. Give love from us all to Ned and Will. Perhaps Ned
will kindly write me if you feel that you can not, and tell me all about
the dear child's illness.

* * * * *

II.

Last Visit from Mrs. Stearns. Visits to old Friends at Newport and
Rochester. Letters. Goes to Dorset. _Fred and Maria and Me_. Letters.

The life of a pastor's wife is passed in the midst of m