it would be better to be scolded than to suffer him to
be alone and in suffering at a London hotel. We were not scolded: but
my prayer to be permitted to follow Henry was condemned to silence:
and what was said being said emphatically, I was obliged to submit,
and to be

thankful for the unsatisfactory accounts which for many days
afterwards we received.... I cannot help being anxious and fearful.
You know he is _all_ left to us--and that without him we should indeed
be orphans and desolate. Therefore you may well know what feelings
those are with which we look back upon his danger; and forwards to any
threatening of a return of it.... It may not be so. Do not, when you
write, allude to my fearing about it. Our only feeling now should
certainly be a deep feeling of thankfulness towards that God of all
consolation Who has permitted us to know His love in the midst of many
griefs; and Who while He has often cast upon us the sorrow and the
shadow, has yet enabled us to recognise it as that 'shadow of the
wings of the Almighty,' wherein we may 'rejoice.' We shall probably
see our dear papa next week. At least we know that he is only waiting
for strength and that he is already able to go out--I fear, not to
_walk_ out. Here we are all well. Belle Vue is sold, and we shall
probably have to leave it in March: but I do not think that we shall
do so before. Henrietta is still very anxious to leave Sidmouth
altogether; and I still feel that I shall very much grieve to leave
it: so that it is happy for us that neither is the _decider_ on this
point. I have often thought that it is happier _not_ to do what one
pleases, and perhaps you will agree with me--if you don't please at
the present moment to do something very particular. And do tell me,
dear Mrs. Martin, what you are pleasing to do, and what you are doing:
for it seems to me, and indeed is, a long time since I heard of
you and Mr. Martin _in detail_. Miss Maria Commeline sent a note to
Henrietta a fortnight ago: and in it was honorable mention of you--but
I won't interfere with the sublimities of your imagination, by telling
you what it was.... I should like to hear something of Hope End:
whether there are many alterations, and whether the new lodge, of
which I heard, is built. Even now, the thought stands before me
sometimes like an object in a dream that I shall see no more those
hills and trees which seemed to me once almost like portions of my
existence. This is not mea