From the many letters of sympathy which Mrs. Ware wrote, we have drawn little. They were sure to be many, from her position, her large circle of intimate friends, the unreserved confidence reposed in her, and her warm affections. How warm and tender those affections were, how prompt to go out to those who suffered, and how sure to do something to soothe and cheer, many of us could tell. Or rather, it is not to be told. But the want of it is felt. There are those of that family and acquaintance, who will never weep, without the remembrance of her ready and wise sympathy. The power of sympathy is not given to all. The feeling may be in all, but not the faculty of so expressing and adapting it as to make it truly sympathy. It requires one to be "acquainted with grief." It requires a quick discernment and deep insight of character. That which is sympathy to one may not reach, or may offend, another. Mrs. Ware understood this so well, that she always accepted, for herself, most gratefully, all attempts at condolence, and at the same time adapted her own to the character and case of the sufferer. "In my intercourse with her," says one, "I felt the difference between feeling _for_ and feeling _with_ another." There is nothing belittling or weakening in such sympathy. It appeals to the highest, and not, as is often done, to lower motives and affections in the mourner. It does not condole merely, but rejoices with him. To a friend in sorrow she writes: "My confidence makes me rather rejoice for you, than grieve, that you should be called to such suffering. There is so much of sublimity in these _great_ trials of faith, that one feels raised by them to a nearer approach to the Infinite, to a clearer vision of the realities of the spiritual world, a nearness, almost oneness, with the Father of spirits. Who would desire to avert any thing that will do this for us?" There is, too, a self-respect and decision, with which even her humility clothes itself. "Your case is much upon my mind, and I cannot help wishing there were some mental daguerreotype, or magnetic communication, by which I could transfer to your mind, without the intervention of words, all that is passing in mine concerning you. 'Vain mortal!' whispers Humility, 'what could you show her worth her seeing?' I was not thinking of the _worth_, but of the sympathy and love. I know that is worth something even from poor me. You say, 'Why do you not talk?' I have no habit of talking about the internal, and I have so little love of discussing the external, that I have no free use of language in any way; and it always seems to me, when I make the attempt to utter what my mind is full of, as if my thoughts all came wrong end foremost; and the idea of taking up a person's time to listen to me seems so foolish, that it embarrasses me by making me feel in a hurry to get through _for their sakes_."