at wouldn't shut. We had a terrible time
with it, and I had to take everything out, and turn my desk topsy-turvy,
and your letters and all my other papers got raving distracted, and all
mixed up with bits of sealing-wax, old pens, and dear knows what not,
when down comes A. from the school-room, to say that Mrs. Stearns had
sent for me to come right out, thinking she was dying. I knew nothing
about the trains, always trusting to Mr. Prentiss about that, but in
five minutes I was off, and on reaching the depot found I had lost a
train by ten minutes, and that there wouldn't be another for an hour.
Then I had leisure to remember that Mr. P. was to get home from Dorset,
that I had left no message for him, had hid away all the letters that
had come in his absence, where he couldn't find them; that if it was
necessary for me to stay at Newark all night he would be dreadfully
frightened, etc., etc. Somehow I felt very blue, but at last concluded
to get rid of a part of the time by hunting up some dinner at a
restaurant.

When I at last got to Newark, I found that Mrs. Stearns' disease had
suddenly developed several unfavorable symptoms. She had made up her
mind that all hope was over, had taken leave of her family, and now
wanted to bid me good-bye. She held my hands fast in both hers, begging
me to talk. I spoke freely to her about her death; she pointed up once
to an illumination I gave her last spring: SIMPLY TO THY CROSS I CLING.
"That," she said, "is all I can do." I said all I could to comfort her,
but I do not know whether God gave me the right word or not.

On my return, as I got out of the stage near the corner of our street,
whom should my weary eyes light on but my dear good man, just got
home from Dorset; how surprised and delighted we were to meet so
unexpectedly! M. rushed to meet us, and afterward said to me, "I have
three great reliefs; you have got home; papa has got home; and Aunt Anna
is still alive." My children were never so lovely and loving as they
are this winter; my home is almost too luxurious and happy; such
things don't belong to this world. We have just heard of the death in
Switzerland of Mr. Prentiss' successor at New Bedford, classmate of one
of my brothers, and some one has sent a plaintive, sweet little dying
song written at Florence by him. Now I am too fagged to say another
word.

_Dec. 4th._--"I do not get _any_ time to write; each day brings its own
special work that can't be done to-m