Dear mother, I need not ask your prayers for your daughter. I know that I am remembered whenever you approach the throne of grace---- My pen dropped from my hand. I was with you in spirit at the hour of family prayer. I saw again my own loved and honored father in his arm chair, near the table, where open before him lies the sacred page. Near by sit my dear mother and sisters, while on the opposite side of the room, are our faithful Jennie and her associates, waiting for the daily instruction, they are in the habit of receiving. When all is still, a chapter is read. Isabel strikes softly the notes of the organ, while all join in a hymn of praise; then my dear father in a simple, trustful manner, lays the wants of each one of the bowed circle before our Heavenly Father. "The voices of my home! I hear them still! They have been with me through the dreamy night-- The blessed household voices, wont to fill My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight." Ah! beloved mother, my spirit melts as I feel assured that I am not forgotten; the dear child who has gone out from the shelter of the parental roof, who lives beyond the mighty waters; for her and her husband, are invoked the choicest of heaven's blessings; strength, support, and comfort, for every hour of need. Thus let me feel, your prayers ever ascend. Father, mother, sisters, _farewell_! "_Crawford, May 2d, 1836._ "HONORED PARENTS, "I am most happy to inform you that after a protracted, and somewhat dangerous illness, my dear wife gave birth to a fine boy, at half past six this morning. My heart is full of gratitude for the mercy which has spared the life of my beloved Cora, and given us so precious a treasure. "Dutifully and affectionately your son, "FRANK LENOX." "_P.S., May 6th_,--Mother and child are doing well. Cora looks very smiling, as she lies gazing at her sleeping babe. She says, tell them I am very, _very_ happy." _Thursday, November 10th._ Beloved mother, how I long to exhibit to you and to all at home, my beautiful boy, my chubby, rosy Walter. He is everything a mother's heart could desire, gifted with every faculty of body and mind, to make him a useful member of society. Yet when I realize that I have given birth to one whose soul can never die, I shrink from the fearful responsibility. Yet I am not alone. There is a fountain of wisdom and knowledge from which I am permitted freely to draw. I am almost too happy. I have a dear husband whose steps become more quick and elastic; whose eye grows more bright whenever he approaches his home, his wife, his sweet little daughter Pauline, and his darling, frolicsome _boy_-baby. Walter knows his father's step right well, and almost springs out of my arms as he opens the door and advances to take him from me.