The struggle was over. Henry Ware died, at Framingham, on Friday morning, September 22. A Sunday intervened before the body was removed for burial, and that day Mrs. Ware went, with her children, morning and afternoon, to their accustomed place of worship; desiring it for their own sacred communion, and believing it most in accordance with _his_ feelings. To her faith, with her habitual view of duty and death, this was probably no effort. To many it would be impossible, even with the same faith; for, unhappily, association and custom are allowed to check our highest aspirations in the holiest seasons, so that many would consider such an effort unnatural and strange. Is it not more strange, that it should ever seem unnatural for a Christian mourner to go to the house of God, in the most solemn hours of life,--especially when that house is completely identified with the life and image of the departed? Mrs. Ware was grateful also for the power of associating the idea of Death, in the minds of her children, not with restraint and gloom, but with the place of prayer and praise, and the cheerful presence of devout worshippers. It was a beautiful exemplification of her high trust, in harmony with her whole character. We honor the principle, and thank her for the act. True, it was an altered and saddened house to which they returned, yet saddened by no gloomy aspect, disturbed by no busy preparation. There was less than usual of care and hurry, instead of more. "It was a holy season," says one of the daughters, "those days after dear father left us; no bustle, no preparation of dress, no work done but what was absolutely necessary; it was like a continued Sabbath." Then, on Sabbath evening, after a simple religious service, the "precious remains" of the husband and father were taken in their own carriage, by the wife and eldest son, to Cambridge; where, the next day, the more public ceremony of interment took place. But of this whole experience it is right to let Mrs. Ware speak in her own letters, several of which we add. The first was written the day after the funeral, to an absent child, and the others to different friends after her return to Framingham. We take them from among many written at that time, either in answer to offers of sympathy, or as a relief to a burdened heart. Of necessity, they contain some repetitions of the same thought, in similar language; but it is best to give them as they are, that we may see in them how great was the bereavement and how deep the anguish of one whose countenance was always cheerful. "_Cambridge, September 26, 1843._ "MY DEAR CHILD:--