The result of the visit to New York is known. Mrs. Ware had not over-estimated the importance of the period. It was a crisis. The second Sunday of her husband's absence was the last time that he ever attempted to preach. He was attacked in the pulpit with bleeding, as he supposed from the lungs, and did not finish the service. It was the end of his career as a preacher, and the extinction of many bright hopes in those united minds and devoted hearts. For to Mrs. Ware, also, was this a disappointment of cherished purposes, not simply as his wife, but from her own fervid interest in the Christian ministry, and her sympathy with the aspirations and the struggles of those engaged, or about to engage, in this great work. Her account of the change, and other changes that followed, closing the Cambridge life, may be best given in extracts from various letters, which will constitute a journal of the time. "_March, 1842._ Mr. Ware had not been well for two months previous to his going to New York; no difficulty upon the lungs,--simply out of order from too close and wearisome attention to a vexatious variety of duty, having no rest, and not time enough to do any thing well. His system seemed disarranged, and he thought he should be most benefited by going away, changing the scene entirely, and obtaining rest to mind and body. He went. Every letter spoke of improvement, and I had made up my mind, that, in spite of all my fears, he was doing the best possible thing. So I said to his father on Sunday evening; and on Monday I received his letter, telling me of his having been taken in church with raising blood. Of course I went immediately to him, arriving at his lodgings at nine, Tuesday morning. The weather was very mild, and the uncertainty of its continuing so made me anxious to get him home. After some reluctance on the part of his physician had been overcome, we decided to return that day. So, after spending eight hours in New York, I turned my face homeward, and in forty hours after leaving my own door landed at it with my precious charge, none the worse for the journey. You may suppose it all seemed a dream to me. It was, however, a sad reality to him, a _very_ sad disappointment.... Your picture of 'rest' is a beautiful vision,--one which many of our friends have brought before our eyes at this time. But what can a man do, with seven children, and only his own hands to depend upon? I scruple not to say, that a ten-foot house, and bread and water diet, with the sense of rest to _him_, would be a luxury, and I trust some door will be opened to us by which we shall obtain it. Now he is tied, bound hand and foot; and if he does not die in the bonds, it is more than any one has a right to calculate upon. How various the trials of life! and how