ther, I fear. Was ever
anything so awful?

* * * * *

Do you know, Susie, everything that has happened to me (and the leaf I
sent you this morning may show you it has had some hurting in it) is
_little_ in comparison to the crushing and depressing effect on me, of
what I learn day by day as I work on, of the cruelty and ghastliness
of the _nature_ I used to think so Divine? But, I get out of it by
remembering, This is but a crumb of dust we call the "world," and a
moment of eternity which we call "time." Can't answer the great
question to-night.

* * * * *

I can only thank you for telling me; and say, Praised be God for
giving him back to us.

Worldly people say "Thank God" when they get what they want; as if it
amused God to plague them, and was a vast piece of self-denial on His
part to give them what they liked. But I, who am a simple person,
thank God when He hurts me, because I don't think he likes it any more
than I do; but I can't _praise_ Him, because--I don't understand
why--I can only praise what's pretty and pleasant, like getting back
our doctor.

* * * * *

_26th November._

And to-morrow I'm not to be there; and I've no present for you, and I
am so sorry for both of us; but oh, my dear little Susie, the good
people all say this wretched makeshift of a world is coming to an end
next year, and you and I and everybody who likes birds and roses are
to have new birthdays and presents of such sugar plums. Crystals of
candied cloud and manna in sticks with no ends, all the way to the
sun, and white stones; and new names in them, and heaven knows what
besides.

It sounds all too good to be true; but the good people are positive of
it, and so's the great Pyramid, and the Book of Daniel, and the "Bible
of Amiens." You can't possibly believe in any more promises of mine, I
know, but if I _do_ come to see you this day week, don't think it's a
ghost; and believe at least that we all love you and rejoice in your
birthday wherever we are.

I'm so thankful you're better.

Reading my old diary, I came on a sentence of yours last year about
the clouds being all "trimmed with swansdown," _so_ pretty. (I
copied it out of a letter.) The thoughts of you always trim _me_
with swansdown.

* * * * *

I never got your note written yesterday; meant at leas