Well, Mother, it’s no use to go on,—no use even to say ‘What am I to do?’ One feels sure in truth that God ‘will find a way’ and show it to me....
But the time goes on and on, very many months already, and yet no streak of light comes from any quarter. One does not see the faintest sign of change, and yet one cannot see how things are permanently possible as they are.
You don’t think it is any want of will or effort in me, Mother? Surely God ‘reaps not where He has not strawed’.
Oh, Mother, Mother, what it will be to rest the tired stupid old head on your bosom again.
80 lessons a week is too much I’m afraid for Ruth, but I can’t pretend to look after her when I’m in Germany,—and perhaps nobody gets on much the worse for that fact. It’s a very forcible rebuke to one’s vanity to find how little anybody is missed from anywhere, (except in their Mother’s hearts, darling) and one or two others perhaps. Yet that’s a hasty way to speak. I believe I do have a great deal of love from more people than I deserve....
Yours lovingly ever,
Soph.
Please tell me by what post this arrives.”
An able letter surely, for one whose “intellects” were worn out. Of course she fails to realize how different her whole outlook on life would have been if she had found the Bible for the first time accidentally in mature life, “on a dunghill” or elsewhere. The Mother’s reply is surely at least as able:
“Thursday, Jany. 29th.