and go silently
out. It is a beautiful day to go to heaven in. Mrs. C. did not know
she was going to die, but that is of no consequence. Only one week ago
yesterday she was at the Industrial school, unusually bright and well,
they all say. Well, I see everything double and had better stop writing.

_Monday, 20th._--Your nice letter was in the letter-box as I started for
school with H.; I called to papa to let him know it was there and went
off, begrudging him the pleasure of reading it before I did. When I got
home there was no papa and no letter to be found; I looked in every
room, on his desk and on mine, posted down to the letter-box and into
the parlor, in vain. At last he came rushing home with it, having
carried it to market, lest I should get and read it alone! So we sat
down and enjoyed it together.... I take out your picture now and then,
when, lo, a big lump in my throat, notwithstanding which I am glad we
let you go; we enjoy your enjoyment, and think it will make the old nest
pleasanter to have been vacated for a while. Papa and I agreed before
we got up this morning that the only fault we had to find with God was,
that He was too good to us. I can't get over the welcome I got from Mr.
C. yesterday. He said I seemed like a mother to him, which made me feel
very old on the one hand, and very happy on the other. If I were you I
wouldn't marry anybody but a minister; it gives one such lots of people
to love and care for. Old Mrs. B. is failing, and lies there as peaceful
and contented as a little baby. I never got sweeter smiles from anybody.
I have got each of the servants a pretty dress for Christmas; I feel
that I owe them a good deal for giving me such a peaceful, untroubled
home.

_Dec. 23d._--It rained very hard all day yesterday till just about the
time of the funeral, half-past three, when the church was well filled,
the Mission-school occupying seats by themselves and the teachers by
themselves.... I thought as I listened to the address that it would
reconcile me to seeing you lying there in your coffin, if such a record
stood against your name. Papa read, at the close, a sort of prophetic
poem of Mrs. C.'s, which she wrote a year or more ago, of which I should
like to send you all a copy, it is so good in every sense. He wants me
to send you a few hasty lines I scribbled off on Sunday noon, with which
he closed his sermon that afternoon, and repeated again at the funeral,
but it is not worth the ink