It is only God who sees which is the bruised reed, and cherishes that specially,—or can do so.
I am thinking how near 4 o’clock is coming. It may bring me a kiss and a word from my darling. I am sure tonight’s post will at any rate.
Well, dear, I have you always and forever, and with you only I could never be desolate. And I have her too,—though she doesn’t know it now.
Yours very very lovingly,
Soph.”
“4.30 p.m. Thanks, many, darling, for your loving little note. You will know before this that the cloud is not dispersing in the way you mean,—that it has only more fully and certainly overspread the sky. Yet there is—and will be more and more, please God,—a light in it too.”
“Dec. 16th 1861. 8.30 p.m.
My own darling Mother,
Thanks so many for the loving little scrap of letter which I knew would come to comfort me.
The sympathy is always delicious, but the active need for it is utterly gone. You will have got my last night’s letter, so Mother will not go to bed with a sad heart for her baby.