friends by tedious complaints about them! Yet when compared with the
great tragedies of suffering I have both witnessed and suffered, how
petty they seem!

Our household, bereft of mother's and James' bright presence, now
numbers just as many members as it did before they left us. Another
angel has flown into it, though not on wings, and I have four darling
children, the baby, who can hardly be called a baby now, being nearly
two years old. My hands and my heart are full, but two of the
children go to school, and that certainly makes my day's work easier.

The little things are happier for having regular employment, and we
are so glad to meet each other again after the brief separation! I
try to be at home when it is time to expect them, for I love to hear
the eager voices ask, in chorus, the moment the door opens: "Is mamma
at home?" Helen has taken Daisy to sleep with her, which after so
many years of ups and downs at night, now with restless babies, now
to answer the bell when Ernest is out, is a great relief to me. Poor
Helen! She has never recovered her cheerfulness since James' death.
It has crushed her energies and left her very sorrowful. This is
partly owing to a soft and tender nature, easily borne down and
overwhelmed, partly to what seems an almost constitutional inability
to find rest in God's will. She assents to all we say to her about
submission, in a sweet, gentle way, and then comes the invariable,
mournful wail, "But it was so unexpected! It came so suddenly!" But
I love the little thing, and her affection for us all is one of our
greatest comforts.

Martha is greatly absorbed in her own household, its cares and its
pleasures. She brings her little Underhills to see us occasionally,