On another page we read of the children's harvest gathered, and also of their Christmas festivities, of the prosperous condition of the school, and the untiring diligence of the scholars; extracts from lectures given by John at the schoolhouse, and the date of his first lecture in the Quaker city, Philadelphia; sorrowful records of the battles fought and gained; a sad story of Willie Goodwin, who was taken prisoner by the Confederates, and came home, poor fellow, only to die; news from our Southern Mary in her Pennsylvania home, and an account of her visit to us, bringing with her Louise, a pet girl, once owned by her father. I saw John looking at her sharply, and with undisguised admiration, and I thought, perhaps, when Ben's wedding day had passed, John might have one. I could say truthfully, "I hope he will." No matter how many or great the changes, the robins still build their nests in the elm tree, and the grass still grows to cover the earth of brown with its emerald mantle; for what care the daisies and the grapes, if the hand of the reaper bids them bow before his trusty blade? The life is at their roots, and their flowers and blades will come again. So with our hearts; they are as hopeful as in the earlier days, ere we had lost sight of some of our jewels, and it is true our love has deathless roots. Louis grows more blessed all the while. The step of my mother is slow, and father bends to bear the burden of his years, while the voice of our Fanny, who will be my sister through all time, cheers them in their daily walk, as she holds in peace the place of little house-keeper. She loves her home, and we love her. Louis and I have just been looking at the pleasant picture in our middle room, where our Emily Minot, sitting between gray hairs, holds in her lap a year-old brother (Louis), while Fanny, sitting on the old sofa, sings the song of "Gentle Annie." Matthias, Peg and John are coming over the hill; Jane and her husband will be here soon, for I am to have a birthday supper. Ben will be with us, but Hal and Mary, with little Hal, are across the sea. They sailed last June to find "Love's Fawn," or rather strength for Mary. Aunt Hildy, "done up in marble," went with them. They will come to us in June, the month of roses; I love it best of all. "Hope dey will; but 'pears like you's jes' gone an' done it." It is morning again. No clouds skirt the horizon; broad, beautiful daylight beams lovingly upon us. The wind, which yesterday blew such fierce breaths, journeyed southward during the night, and returned laden with good-tempered sweetness, whispering of warmer days. We had a pleasant birthday supper, and by request I read aloud a few of the foregoing chapters. Matthias rose in terror as he listened to the recital of our united lives, and interrupted me, saying: "De good lansake, 'fore de Lord ob Canaan! but you ain't gwine to put _me_ down in rale printed readin', is ye?"