u do, as if I loved them more than the Bible. But I have got over
that; I prayed myself out of it, not loving hymns the less, but the
Bible more. I wonder if you sing; I can't remember; if you do, I will
send you, sometime, a hymn to sing for my sake, called "More love to
Thee, O Christ." Only to think, our silver wedding comes next month, and
A. and the Smiths away!

I have been interrupted by callers, and must have been in the parlor
several hours. You can't think what a sweet, peaceful winter this has
been, nor how good the children are. My cup has just run over, and at
times I am too happy to be comfortable, if you know what that means;
not having a strong body, I suppose you do. Mrs. B. has been in a very
critical state of late, but she is rallying, and I may, perhaps, have
the privilege of seeing her again. I have had some precious times with
her in her sick-room; last Friday, a week ago, she prayed with me in the
sweetest temper of mind, and came with me when I took leave, to the head
of the stairs, full of love and smiles.

_To a Young Friend, April 5, 1870._

I wish that hymn for the sick-room were mine, but it is not. I will
enclose one that is, which my dear husband has kindly had printed;
perhaps you will like to sing it to the tune of "Nearer, my God, to
Thee." There is not much in it, but you can put everything into it as
you make it your prayer. I can't help feeling that every soul I meet, of
whom I can ask, What think you of Christ? and get the glad answer, "He
is the chiefest among ten thousand, _the One_ altogether lovely"--is a
blessing as well as a comfort to mine; and whenever you can and do say
it, you will become more dear to me. Your God and Saviour won you as an
easy victory, but He had to fight for me. It seems to me now that He
ought to have all there is of me--which, to be sure, isn't much--and I
hope He is taking it. His ways with me have been perfectly beautiful and
infinite in long-suffering and patience.

_April 11th._--Your note has reawakened a question I have often had
occasion to ask myself before. Why do my friends speak of my letters as
giving more pleasure or profit than anything that goes to them from me
in print? Is human nature so selfish? Must everybody have everything
to himself? It might seem so at first blush, but I think there are two
sides to this question. May it not be possible that God sends a message
directly from _one_ heart to _another_ as He does not to the _many