That would be the end, I suppose, if it were a story, but to my
mother it was only another beginning, and not the last. I see her
bending over the cradle of her first-born, college for him already
in her eye (and my father not less ambitious), and anon it is a
girl who is in the cradle, and then another girl - already a tragic
figure to those who know the end. I wonder if any instinct told my
mother that the great day of her life was when she bore this child;
what I am sure of is that from the first the child followed her
with the most wistful eyes and saw how she needed help and longed
to rise and give it. For of physical strength my mother had never
very much; it was her spirit that got through the work, and in
those days she was often so ill that the sand rained on the
doctor's window, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and 'she is
in life, we can say no more' was the information for those who came
knocking at the door. 'I am sorrow to say,' her father writes in
an old letter now before me, 'that Margaret is in a state that she
was never so bad before in this world. Till Wednesday night she
was in as poor a condition as you could think of to be alive.
However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr. says this morning
that he is better hoped now, but at present we can say no more but
only she is alive and in the hands of Him in whose hands all our
lives are. I can give you no adequate view of what my feelings
are, indeed they are a burden too heavy for me and I cannot
describe them. I look on my right and left hand and find no
comfort, and if it were not for the rock that is higher than I my
spirit would utterly fall, but blessed be His name who can comfort
those that are cast down. O for more faith in His supporting grace
in this hour of trial.'