“The Writer of our Destiny is a fair writer;
Never wrote He that which would wrong us.”
I was very ill with nervous dyspepsia during June, but on July second accepted the proposal of the New York Herald, to run for one of the three judges of the ten thousand dollars prize offered by that paper for the best novel submitted to it. My vote was so large, that it was at this time the Herald said I must be “the best beloved woman in the country.” Mr. George Parsons Lathrop and Mr. Hazeltine were my colleagues.
After this I wrote “The Knight of the Nets” for the Herald. “Discontented Women” for the North American Review—for which article Mr. Rideing the editor wrote me a letter of thanks, a story for the Home Queen, and other small items.
On the twenty-sixth of September Lilly married Mr. Edward A. Munro, a Canadian whose business was in Brooklyn. It was an overwhelming trial to me, for Lilly had been my right hand in all affairs since her father’s death. It is true that ten words by telegraph never yet failed to bring her to my side by the next possible train, but the house was empty and forlorn without her; and both Alice and I were desolate. However life is a constant learning “to do without” until that wonderful, “never-coming-back,” we call death, restores to us all that we have lost.
On December twenty-second, our dear Sultan died. We buried him in Cherry Croft, and were all heart-broken. Alas!
“There’s sorrow enough in the natural way,
From men and women to fill our day:
But when we are certain of sorrow in store,