ng professors of
even sinless perfection guilty of what I consider sinful sin, and my
whole soul was so staggered that for some days I could not pray, but
could only say, "O God, if there be any God, come to my rescue." ... But
God loves better than He knows us, and foresaw every infidelity before
He called us to Himself. Nothing in us takes Him, therefore, by
surprise. Fenelon teaches what no other writer does--to be "patient with
ourselves," and I think as you penetrate into the Christian life, you
will agree with him on every point as I do.

_August 19th._--I have had a couple of rather sickish days since writing
the above, but am all right again now. Hot weather does not agree with
me. I used to reproach myself for religious stupidity when not well, but
see now that God Is my kind Father--not my hard taskmaster, expecting me
to be full of life and zeal when physically exhausted. It takes long to
learn such lessons. One has to penetrate deeply into the heart of Christ
to begin to know its tenderness and sympathy and forbearance.

You can't imagine how Miss K. has luxuriated in her visit, nor how good
she thinks we all are. She holds views to which I can not quite respond,
but I do not condemn or reject them. She is a modest, praying, devoted
woman; not disposed to obtrude, much less to urge her opinions; full
of Christian charity and forbearance; and I am truly thankful that she
prays for me and mine; in fact, she loves to pray so, that when she gets
hold of a new case, she acts as one does who has found a treasure.

I wish you were looking out with me on the beautiful array of mountains
to be seen from every window of our house and breathing this delicious
air.

_September 25th._--We expect now to go home on Friday next, though if I
had known how early the foliage was going to turn this year, I should
have planned to stay a week longer to see it in all its glory. It is
looking very beautiful even now, and our eyes have a perpetual feast. We
have had a charming summer, but one does not want to play all the time,
and I hope God has work of some sort for me to do at home during the
winter. Meanwhile, I wish I could send you a photograph of the little
den where I am now writing, and the rustic adornings which make it _sui
generis_, and the bit of woods to be seen from its windows, that, taking
the lead of all other Dorset woods, have put on floral colors, just
because they are ours and know we want them looking their