BEVERLY, MASS., July 10, 1892. MY DEAR FRIEND,--I heard of you last in Danvers, but I am not sure whether you are there or not, though I have been trying to get around and see! I have been occupied with various matters which have taken me to Boston frequently, and I have usually stayed with Mrs. Guild, Roxbury. ... I do not find myself so strong as usual this year, and my plans for work may all fall through. I think I never had so much that I wanted to do, before. My last two little books have been so widely and warmly welcomed, that it seems to me as if I had only just learned what I _can_ do. If I had begun to write from what I feel most deeply twenty years ago, I might have been of some real help to the world. But then I had not had the experience, and perhaps could not. It makes me very thankful to know that you approve my work. We have so often talked over these matters together. I think the inspiration must be partly, at least, from you. I know that my one desire is for _reality_ in the spiritual life, for self and for others.... Beverly, October 16, 1892. This summer has brought me little time for writing, but much for suffering and thinking. Three months ago to-day my dear sister Emeline left this world; suddenly,--quietly,--just “slipped away,” her daughter Lucy says. She made herself ready for church, and sat waiting,--but it was heaven for her, instead. Her going makes more difference to me than the departure of any one else could; for she has been part of my life ever since I was born. She did more to shape my mind--my soul--than any one else did. And yet I differed from her in my way of thinking, upon many things; the deep agreement was underneath, at the spiritual foundations. I think her great power over me was in her great capacity for love. Her great heart, while it was faithful to home ties, failed of love to none of God’s children; and to me she was even more mother than sister. Her going makes it an easier thing for me to go, when the time comes. Then, while on Moosilauke summit, the news of Mr. Whittier’s death came to me--more translation than death. I seemed to see him pass on by me, up the heights, and seemed to hear him say, as he passed, “So easy a thing it is to die! Like the mountain blending with the clouds, like the melting of earth into sky, is the transition from life into loftier life.” He too passed away in peace; the lovelier to think of, because he had always dreaded the hour of death. He, too, was my noble and tried friend; in my life for more than fifty years. He is associated in my life with the beauty of the hills and the sea that we have enjoyed together, with the deep things of poetry and religion, which were indeed one reality to him. The memory of fireside talks in his own home, with his sister, so dear to us both; the readings of “In Memoriam” with him after she was gone,--are most blessedly vivid to me.