n a long visit and it is such a journey to make for-a short
one! But, as I said the other day, if at any time you feel a little
stronger and it would comfort you even a little bit to see me, I will
drop everything and run right over. It seems hard to have you suffer
so and do nothing for you. But don't be discouraged; pain can't last
forever.

"I know not the way I am going
But well do I know my Guide!
With a childlike trust I give my hand,
To the mighty Friend at my side.
The only thing that I say to Him
As He takes it, is, 'Hold it fast.
Suffer me not to lose my way,
And bring me home at last!'"

MY DEAR ANNA:-I feel such tender love and pity for you, but I know you
are too sick to read more than a few words.

"In the furnace God may prove thee,
Thence to bring thee forth more bright
But can never cease to love thee:
Thou art precious in His sight!"
Your ever affectionate LIZZY.

_To Mrs. Lenard, Friday, Oct. 30, 1858._

We got home safely last evening before any of the children had gone to
bed, and they all came running to meet us most joyfully. This morning I
am restless and can not set about anything. It distresses me to think
how little human friendship can do for such a sorrow as yours. When a
sufferer is on the rack he cares little for what is said to him though
he may feel grateful for sympathy. I found it hard to tear myself away
from you so soon, but all I could do for you there I could do all along
the way home and since I have got here: love you, be sorry for you, and
constantly pray for you. I am sure that He who has so sorely afflicted
you accepts the patience with which you bear the rod, and that when this
first terrible amazement and bewilderment are over, and you can enter
into communion and fellowship with Him, you will find a joy in Him that,
hard as it is to the flesh to say so, transcends all the sweetest and
best joys of human life. You will have nothing to do now but to fly to
Him. I have seen the time when I could hide myself in Him as a little
child hides in its mother's arms, and so have thousands of aching
hearts. In all our afflictions He is afflicted. But I must not weary you
with words. May God bless and keep you, and fully reveal Himself unto
you!

_To Miss. E. A. Warner, New York, Nov. 2, 1868._

I have been lying on the sofa in my room, half asleep, and feeling
rather guilty at the lot of gas I was wasting, but too lazy or too tired
to g