at rest out of or far from Christ, nor do I want to be. Getting new
and warm friends is all very well, but I emerge from this snare into a
deepening conviction that I must learn to say, "None but Christ."...
Now, dear ----, it is a dreadful thing to be cold towards our best
Friend'; a calamity if it comes upon us through Satan; a sin and folly
if it is the result of any fault or omission of our own. There is but
one refuge from it, and that is in just going to Him and telling Him all
about it. We can not force ourselves to love Him, but we can ask Him to
_give_ us the love, and sooner or later He _will_. He may seem not to
hear, the answer may come gradually and imperceptibly, but it will
come. He has given you one friend at least who prays for your spiritual
advance every day. I hope you pray thus for me. Friendship that does not
do that is not worth the name. _April 17th_.--Of course, I'll take the
will for the deed and consider myself covered with "orange blossoms,"
like a babe in the wood. And it is equally of course that I was married
with lots of them among my lovely auburn locks, and wore a veil in point
lace twenty feet long.

I have had several titles given me in Dorset--among others, a "child of
nature"--and last night I was shown a letter in which (I hope it is
not wicked to quote it in such a connexion) I am styled "a Princess in
Christ's Kingdom." Can you cap this climax?

* * * * *

II.

Goes to Dorset. Christian Example. At Work among her Flowers. Dangerous
Illness. Her Feeling about Dying. Death an "Invitation" from Christ.
"The Under-current bears _Home_." "More Love, More love!" A Trait of
Character. Special Mercies. What makes a sweet Home. Letters.

Early in June, accompanied by the three younger children, she went to
Dorset. This change always put her into a glow of pleasurable emotion.
Once out of the city, she was like a bird let loose from its cage. In a
letter to her husband, dated "Somewhere on the road, five o'clock
P.M.," she wrote: "M. is laughing at me because, Paddy-like, I proposed
informing you in a P. S. that we had reached Dorset; as if the fact of
mailing a letter there could not prove it. So I will take her advice and
close this now. I feel that our cup of mercies is running over. We ought
to be ever so good! And I _am_ ever so loving!" "We are all as gay as
larks," she wrote a few days later; and in spite of heat, drought,
over-work and sickne