?_
Does He not speak through the living voice and the pen that is that
voice, as He does not do in the less unconstrained form of print? At any
rate, I love to believe that He directs each word and look and tone;
_inspires_ rather, I should say.

I should like you to offer a special prayer for us on Saturday. That day
completes twenty-five years of married life to us, and, though it has
its shades as well as its lights, I do not think I can do better for you
than ask that you may have such years,

"For who the backward scene hath scanned
But blessed the Father's guiding hand?"

I can more truly thank Him for His chastisements than for His worldly
indulgences; the latter urge from, the former drive to Him. I am saying
a great thing in a feeble way, and you may multiply it by ten thousand,
and it will still be weak.

The hymn, "More Love to Thee, O Christ," belongs, probably, as far back
as the year 1856. Like most of her hymns, it is simply a prayer put into
the form of verse. She wrote it so hastily that the last stanza was left
incomplete, one line having been added in pencil when it was printed.
She did not show it, not even to her husband, until many years after it
was written; and she wondered not a little that, when published, it met
with so much favor.

* * * * *

II.

Her Silver Wedding. "_I have Lived, I have Loved_." No Joy can put her
out of Sympathy with the Trials of Friends. A Glance backward. Last
Interview with a dying Friend. More Love and more Likeness to Christ.
Funeral of a little Baby. Letters to Christian Friends.

If 1870 was the crowning year in Mrs. Prentiss' life, the 16th of April
was that year's most precious jewel. As the time drew nigh, a glow of
tender, grateful recollection suffused her countenance.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer.

She talked of the past, like one lost in wonder, while the light and
beauty of the vanished years appeared still to rest upon her spirit.
The day itself, which had been kept from the knowledge of most of her
friends, was full of sweet content, rehearsing, as it were, all the days
of her married life; and, at its close, the measure of her earthly joy
seemed to be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.

_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, April 16, 1845-1870._

Do you know that it is just twenty-five years since we first met? How
gladly would I spend the day of our silver wedding with you! You will
see that I am nea