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June 1877
I find you with Dusk-for Day is tired, and lays her antediluvian cheek to the Hill like a child. Nature confides now- I hope you are joyful frequently, these beloved Days. And the health of your friend bolder. I remember her with my Blossoms and wish they were her's.
Whose Pink career may have a closeSummer is so kind I had hoped you might come. Since my Father's dying, everything sacred enlarged so-it was dim to own-When a few years old-I was taken to a Funeral which I now know was of peculiar distress, and the Clergyman asked "Is the Arm of the Lord shortened that it cannot save?" He italicized the "cannot." I mistook the accent for a doubt of Immortality and not daring to ask, it besets me still, though we know that the mind of the Heart must live if it's clerical part do not. Would you explain it to me? I was told you were once a Clergyman. It comforts an instinct if another have felt it too. I was rereading your "Decoration." You may have forgotten it.
Lay this Laurel on the OnePlease recall me to Mrs-Higginson- Your scholar.
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