“I believe that in the Almighty's gradual teaching of His creatures, a Diviner than Moses brought to us a higher law--in which the sole expiation required is penitence, with obedience: “_Repent ye? “Go and sin no more?_ It appears to me, so far as I can judge and read here”--my Bible was still in my hand--“that throughout the New, and in many parts of the Old Testament, runs one clear doctrine, namely, that any sin, however great, being repented of and forsaken, is by God, and ought to be by man, altogether pardoned, blotted out and done away.” “God bless you!” For the second time he said to me those words--said them twice over, and left me. Rather abruptly; but he is sometimes abrupt when thinking deeply of anything. Thus ended our little talk: yet it left a pleasant impression. True, the subject was strange enough; my sisters might have been shocked at it; and at my freedom in asking and giving opinions. But oh! the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly on any subject; with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort--the inexpressible comfort of feeling _safe_ with a person--having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. Somebody must have done a good deal of the winnowing business this afternoon; for in the course of it I gave him as much nonsense as any reasonable man could stand--even such an ultra-reasonable man as Doctor Urquhart. Papa said once, that she was “taking too great liberty of speech with our good friend, the Doctor”--that foolish little Dora but foolish little Dora knows well enough what she is about--when to be silly and when to be wise. She believes in her heart that there are some people to whom it does great good to be dragged down from their heights of wisdom, and forced to talk and smile, until the clouds wears off, and the smile becomes permanent--grows into a sunshine that warms every one else all through. Oh, if he had had a happy life--if Dallas had lived--this Dallas, whom I often think about, and seem to know quite well--what a cheerful blithe nature his would have been! Just before tea, when papa was taking his sleep, Doctor Urquhart proposed that we should all go for a walk. Penelope excused herself; besides, she thinks it wrong to walk out on a Sunday; but Lisabel and Augustus were very glad to go. So was I, having never been beyond the garden since papa's illness. If I try to remember all the trivial incidents of to-day, at full length, it is because it has been such an exceedingly happy day: to preserve which from the chances of this mortal life, “the sundry and manifold changes of this world,” as the prayer says, I here write them down.