Always it is by paths they have not known; and what new and wonderful ministries may be prepared for us there, who have sought Him through all our faltering and waywardness here, He knows; and it is good to trust Him always, and for all things. Sabbath, May 11. Esther’s letters are a constant comfort to me; they say more to me now, about some things, than they did while she was alive. I love to keep them near me--in sight. Does she know how happy she makes me every day I live, how rich I am in the inheritance of love she has left me? Ah! how little can I tell what she is doing for me now! But the “idea of her life” seems growing into all my thoughts. I could not have known her as I do if she had not gone away, to return in spirit; and I can see her, too, moulding the lives of others she loved most dearly. There is more of heaven in this Spring’s sunshine than I have seen for years. I owe my acquaintance with Robertson to her; a gift she sent me out of deepest pain, when she was passing through the fires, and none but Jesus knew. I use his thoughts on the epistle to the Corinthians with my class these Sunday mornings; that is, I read the Apostle’s words, then Robertson’s, then the Apostle’s again, and afterward talk with the scholars from the things which I have, in both ways, received. And by the kindling eyes and earnest looks of all, especially of some whose natures have seemed indolent and unspiritual, I feel assured that the living thought is sometimes found and received mutually. A soul must drink the truth, bathe in it, glow with its life, in order to impart it to another soul; and it is to me a source of gratitude which I can never exhaust, that such as Robertson and my Esther “have lived and died.” May 13. Yesterday morning the news came of the surrender of Norfolk, and, in a sudden burst of patriotism, the school went out and marched round the Liberty pole, under the Stars and Stripes, singing “Hail Columbia,” and cheering most heartily. The defeat of the rebels--happily bloodless--was attended with the usual amount of vandalism, burning of buildings, ships, etc. The stolen ship “Merrimac,” transformed into an iron-fanged rebel war steamer, was blown up; we are all glad her race is run. And the vandalism of the rebels is but another proof to the world of the worth of their cause, the desperate situation in which they find themselves, and on which side of the contest barbarism lingers. All hearts are lighter now. The doom of this demoniac rebellion is sealed. There is no longer any slavery in the District of Columbia, and doubtless the whole infamous “system” shall be drowned out in the blood of this war. If not, it will seem to have been shed in vain.