"_Osmotherly, September 8, 1825._ "MY DEAR EMMA:-- "Watching all night by a death-bed is but a poor preparation for writing; and yet I am not willing to lose the first leisure moment that I have had since I wrote you, lest you should be alarmed at my long silence. But I think, from the account I gave you of the state of affairs here, you will naturally conclude that I should have had constant occupation, and will not be uneasy about me. I have indeed found quite as much employment for mind and body as either were able to perform, and have not had one moment to devote to you, although my heart has been with you, and my thoughts have often followed you. The poor sick man, of whom I told you, has been growing worse daily, and it was with feelings of almost joy that I last night closed his eyes, knowing that his sufferings were at an end; and yet he is so great a loss to his family, that I seldom knew a case in which it was so difficult to feel that 'it is right.' His wife, who is but a slender woman, is left with three little boys, without a penny to support them, and almost without the power of gaining it, for the youngest, which is but three weeks old, is dreadfully ill with the whooping-cough. She is a calm and patient sufferer, however, and it does one good to see how trouble can be borne by the most unlettered and uninformed, when the spirit is right. I have not been able to do much for him, but the little baby has been my constant care, and I have got to loving it dearly. Every thing around me is sad and sorrowful, and nothing but the effort, which it is absolutely necessary for me to make, to cheer and assist others, gives me the least pleasure. My poor aunt, weakened in mind and body by continued and most severe afflictions, is almost a child; her son is nearly insane, and keeps her in constant fear lest he may destroy himself; and the trials of this poor daughter are enough to break her heart. Another of my cousins is well married, and wishes me to be with her at her quiet and happy home; but I cannot think of deserting this post, however painful, for any prospect of ease to myself. In fact, it seems to me that posts of difficulty are my appointed lot and my element, for I do feel lighter and happier when I have difficulties to overcome. Could you look in upon me, you would think it was impossible that I could be even tolerably comfortable, and yet I am cheerful, and get on as easily as possible, and am in truth happy.