"Because nothing can be wise that is not practical," returned _Father_, "and I teach my Children Philosophie to fitt them for living in the World, not above it. One may spend a Life in dreaming over _Plato_, and yet goe out of it without leaving the World a whit the better for our having made Part of it. 'Tis to little Purpose we studdy, if it onlie makes us exact Perfections in others which they may in vayn seek for in ourselves. It is not even necessary or goode for us to live entirelie with congeniall Spiritts. The vigourous tempers the inert, the passionate is evened by the cool-tempered, the prosaic balances the visionarie. Woulde thy Mother suit me better, dost thou suppose, if she coulde discuss Polemicks like _Luther_ or _Melancthon_? E'en thine owne sweet Mother, _Meg_, was less affected to Studdy than thou art,--she learnt to love it for my Sake, but I made her what she was." And, with a suddain Burste of fond Recollection, he hid his Eyes on my Shoulder, and for a Moment or soe, cried bitterlie. As for me, I shed, oh! such salt Teares!... _Aug. 17th._ Entering, o' the suddain, into _Mercy's_ Chamber, I founde her all be-wept and waped, poring over an old Kirtle of Mother's she had bidden her re-line with Buckram. Coulde not make out whether she were sick of her Task, had had Words with Mother, or had some secret Inquietation of her owne; but, as she is a Girl of few Words, I found I had best leave her alone after a Caress and kind Saying or two. We alle have our Troubles. _Wednesday, 19th._ Trulie may I say soe. Here have they ta'en a Fever of some low Sorte in my House of Refuge, and _Mother_, fearing it may be the Sicknesse, will not have me goe neare it, lest I should bring it home. _Mercy_, howbeit, hath besought her soe earnestlie to let her goe and nurse the Sick, that _Mother_ hath granted her Prayer, on Condition she returneth not till the Fever bates ... thus setting her Life at lower Value than our owne. Deare _Mercy_! I would fayn be her Mate. _21st._