After a silence of several years my father has written me again. You know he is living in C. and was formerly an instructor in the State Prison at S. He is now old and broken in health, making him incapable for steady work, so he is residing at a soldiers' home. He expresses great anxiety in regard to my future, thinking me friendless, etc. I have written him a long letter reviewing the principal incidents of my prison life. How good God has been to me and how my mind is at rest as regards the future because I have left it in His hands. To find favor with my God is all I desire. Having that, whatever my condition I shall be like St. Paul, content. That is my view of a successful future or life. Wealth, power, ability, all things that men aspire to in this life, do not make or lead to success in my mind. Nothing but the favor of God brings it to man, and that favor comes through the "washing of regeneration and the renewing of the Holy Ghost." Oh, I am so glad that I know this--even me! How can man doubt the wondrous love of God when He is so patient to all who will but look and see. Well, said someone, that they do not want to look and see lest they should be healed and be saved. My poor old father is a church-member, but I fear he knows nothing about Holy Ghost religion, Jesus Christ's religion, pure and undefiled. I want to do just right all of the time. I know my heart is right because I hate sin and love righteousness. If the Lord has no other work for me when I leave here, I would like to labor under your guidance. When are you coming this way again? I would love to greet you once more before I die. C. * * * * * From every nodding flower, from every whispering breeze From mountain's lofty height, from towering trees, From softly twinkling star, from lightning's giddy flash, From the softest twitter of a bird and thunder's awful crash, From hills the ants may call their own, From crested elders 'round their throne, From babbling brook, from storm-lashed wave, From nature smiling, nature grave, From earth and air, from sky and sea, There comes the self same voice to me, Like softest note of cooing dove, And sweetly whispers, "GOD IS LOVE." --_A Prisoner._ [Illustration: ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, MITCHELVILLE, IOWA.] [Illustration: CAMPUS AND PLAYGROUND, GIRLS' INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL, MITCHELVILLE, IOWA.] CHAPTER VII. Letters from Co-workers, and Some of My Prison Girls.