. . . I was sick, little sister, and write you the first that I am able. The loveliest sermon I ever heard was the disappointment of Jesus in Judas. It was told like a mortal story of intimate young men. I suppose no surprise we can ever have will be so sick as that. The last "I never knew you" may resemble it. I would your hearts could have rested from the first severity before you received this other one, but "not as I will." I suppose the wild flowers encourage themselves in the dim woods, and the bird that is bruised limps to his house in silence, but we have human natures, and these are different. It is lovely that Mrs. W------ did not disappoint you; not that I thought it possible, but you were so much grieved. . . . . A finite life, little sister, is that peculiar garment that were it optional with us we might declime to wear. Tender words to Loo, not most, I trust, in need of them.