JANUARY 1, 1853.-It is not always so easy to practice, as it is to preach. I can see in my wisdom forty reasons for having four children and no more. The comfort of sleeping in peace, of having a little time to read, and to keep on with my music; strength with which to look after Ernest's poor people when they are sick; and, to tell the truth, strength to be bright and fresh and lovable to him--all these little joys have been growing very precious to me, and now--I must give them up. I want to do it cheerfully and without a frown. But I find I love to have my own way, and that at the very moment I was asking God to appoint my work for me, I was secretly marking it out for myself. It is mortifying to find my will less in harmony with His than I thought it was; and that I want to prescribe to Him how I shall spend the time and the health and the strength which are His, not mine. But I will not rest until till this struggle is over; till I can say with a smile, "Not my will! Not my will! But Thine!" We have been, this winter, one of the happiest families on earth. Our love to each other, Ernest's and mine, though not perfect-nothing on earth is-has grown less selfish, more Christ-like; it has been sanctified by prayer and by the sorrows we have borne together. Then the children have been well and happy, and the source of almost unmitigated joy and comfort. And Helen's presence in this home, her sisterly affection, her patience with the children and her influence over them, is a benediction for which I cannot be thankful enough. How delightful it is to have a sister! I think it is not often the case that own sisters have such perfect Christian sympathy with each other as we have. Ever since the day she ceased to torment herself with the fear that she was not a child of God, and laid aside the sombre garments she had worn so long, she has had a peace that has hardly known a cloud. She says, in a note written me about the time: