Such paragraphs as the one I add, from a little letter of my sister's, often appear; but in this instance it was the glad exclamation of release, just before we removed to Italy:-- "Papa will be with us on Monday, free from the terrors of the old Consulate. Perhaps you can imagine what infinitely joyful news that is to us; and to him, too, as much, if not more so; for he has had all the work, and we have only suffered from his absence." The letters proceed:-- MY DEAR FATHER,--It was delightful to see your handwriting this week, written with the same firmness as ever. It gives me unspeakable satisfaction to know that the drafts Mr. Hawthorne sent contribute to your ease, and supply you with embellishments and luxuries, which in sickness are necessaries. I only wish I could put strength into your limbs, as well as provide you with a stuffed chair to repose them upon. Mr. Hawthorne has wished, you see, to prevent your having any anxiety about little wants. It will be all right for the present, and future too. . . . I suppose the War will affect everything in a disastrous manner, except the End, and that God will take into His own hands for good, no doubt, though not as either party proposes. Here in England we are wholly occupied with the War. No one thinks or talks of anything else. Every face is grave with sorrow for the suffering and slaughter, and then triumphant with pride and joy at the incredible heroism of the troops. . . . In his sermon before the last, Mr. Channing brought out my dearest, inmost doctrines and faith; the sovereignty of good; the unfallen ideal in man; the impossibility of God's ever for one moment turning from man, or being averse to him; the essential transitoriness of evil. . . . I deeply regret that Una and Julian cannot hear the sermons for the little people, for I think it would do much towards saving their souls. My mother's loss in the death of her father was a great grief, which fell upon her at this time. She wrote to my aunt:--