But the lesson was hard to learn. "There are trying days before us," she wrote to one of her dearest friends (Aug. 1873); "however, we cannot change a single 'hair'; we must look to Him 'Alike who grasps eternity, And numbers every hair.' I don't know that it is ever difficult to me to entrust my 'hair' to Him, but to entrust A.'s, and yours, and poor matron's I find very difficult. And I thought He did not take care of B.'s hairs. What a reprobate I am!" And a worse "reprobate" than this letter says; for in fact she did find it very difficult to entrust even her own "hair to Him"--as she confessed in another letter to the same friend: "God is displeased when we enquire too anxiously. A soul which has really given itself to God does His will in the present, and trusts to the Father for the future. Now it is twenty years to-day [Aug. 11, 1873] since I entered 'public life'--and I have not learnt that lesson yet--though the greater part of those twenty years have been as completely out of my hands to mould, and in His alone, as if they had been the movements of the planets." The surrender of her will to the keeping of the Supreme Will was the spiritual perfection at which she most continuously aimed. In consciousness of failure, she reproached herself for censoriousness, rebellion, impatience. She knew that some of all this, and much of her dejection, were morbid, and warned others against the like weakness. "Do not depend, darling," she wrote to a friend, "upon 'light' in one sort of mystical way. There are things, as I know by experience, in which He sends us light by the hard good sense of others, not by our going over in sickness and solitude one thought, or rather feeling, over and over again by ourselves, which rather brings darkness. I have felt this so much in my lonely life." But there was another mystical way in which she found strength. In her spiritual life, which was at once the complement and the sustaining source of her outward life, she followed, as she was fond of writing, "the Way of the Cross." There were moments indeed, but they were rare, in which she was inclined to draw back, and when her faith grew faint. "O my Creator, art Thou leading every man of us to perfection? Or is this only a metaphysical idea for which there is no evidence? Is man only a constant repetition of himself? Thou knowest that through all these 20 horrible years [1873] I have been supported by the belief (I think I must believe it still or I am sure I could not work) that I was working with Thee who wert bringing every one, even our poor nurses, to perfection." Yet from every doubt her assurance grew the stronger; and as she followed the Way of the Cross, she rose triumphant over suffering, finding in each loss of human sympathy a lesson that she should throw herself more entirely into the Eternal Arms, and in every outbreak of human despondency or rebellion a call to closer union with the Eternal Goodness. "O Father, I