‘Oh how often did I pine for death, not but that I could have taken the suffering. I thought that was possible, if I could have borne it alone. The grief was to feel that I should lead others away, whether I spoke or was silent. This only was right, never to say an untrue word, to teach what truth I had. But I was pledged like a clergyman. Still I did not yet know what I thought. I might read a little, for if I must find Christ was dead, I hoped, begged, God would take my life, that others might not die through me. With what joy did I see sickness come, and what disappointment there was when it was not unto death. ‘Sometimes I thought I would take some spiritual opiate,—think no more, but try to kill self into a state in which probability should content me. But I could not work nor pray by such means. And if I could content myself by a sedative, could I my children? No; I must go on till I could feel the truth of those words ever recurring to me, “And dying rise, and rising with Him, raise His brethren, ransomed by His own dear life.” ‘In darkness, I thought, “He descended into hell,” and I felt I would not rise unless I could bring my children too with me. ‘What was the state of thought [at that time]? One could only look and read and see amongst the most intellectual the loss of hold on Christianity, and with those who believed, one felt it had been as with oneself, the belief would not bear the strain that would come; the tints were put on, were not our life through assimilation.’[52] Probably those to whom Miss Beale turned at first realised little of the distress that prompted her questions. ‘I said, “Surely there must be some one who can help where I am too weak and ignorant,” so I went to a distinguished [teacher] whom I thought so able and strong, and his concluding words sounded like a knell. “Nothing can be done.”’[53] The darkest hour came during the early days of August when staying with friends, from whom she vainly hoped to conceal her sorrow. ‘At first I was silent, but as I could only weep day and night, I was obliged to tell them.... They kept me when I could not pay other visits. Whilst wondering at my misery they tried to help me by getting [books].’[54] It was perhaps some relief—as of one who faces the worst—to note in her diary each fresh incoming wave of sorrowful thought. ‘_1882, August 6, Sunday._ At church. A nice sermon on the parable of the Unjust Steward. Talk of Newman’s books. J. said A. had some. I, thinking of J. H. N., asked to borrow. [The book] proved to be by the brother, F. Newman. ‘_Monday, August 7._ Read some [of F. Newman’s book]. Pitied him much. ‘_Tuesday, August 8._ 6 A.M.-8, read more. Miserable. After breakfast walked alone. No letter. Could not go to dinner. Terrible neuralgia. Wept nearly all day.