have; while there opened to the eyes which had travelled the longest and saddest road, a picture of a long, new winter, which gladly, most gladly, she would have turned away from.
Oct. 1st.—Susie, who has been poorly for several days, has now a serious fever upon her. I go every day to "smooth her up;" little Typhoid, still unable to go about, is taken up stairs into the same room with Susie. They manifest their distress, as well as their gratitude, in as different ways as possible. Typhoid is peace and patience itself; Susie keeps up a loud demonstration of her pains and wants. But she is very pleasant, too. I believe she is really much the sickest person; and am afraid there will be more sickness in that house.
Coming home, I find the man of whom we get our milk, at the door. This man I must tell you about. Just opposite my door, twenty rods distant, stands a cabin made of turf. The man who lives in it keeps a few cows, and sells their milk. He is rather a good-looking specimen of a man, and quite gracious in his manner. Report says he is a clergyman from Pennsylvania. At any rate, his mission here
