Genuine nature he always springs to. Father was
entirely unspoiled by the world--as pure of it as a dewdrop. This
indeed made him a rare person. He seems to stand meekly in the
presence of God. Where more arch-angelic intellect--divine
genius--would tremble and faint, simple goodness will feel quite at
home, with its one talent become two talents, and its faith
and hope blossomed into reality. By and by I shall perhaps have a
vivid sense of his presence, as I did of mother's, six weeks after her
departure.
We have been out, for the first time, walking in the garden. The
morning was beautiful. The budding shrubbery was on every side, and
daisies and wallflowers and auriculas blooming even while a thin veil
of snow lay in some places.
Una, in writing home to America, portrays the family peace, and the
little landscapes of the quieter corners of our "Old Home:"--
"We have got to England at last. It does not seem as if we were in
England, but in Boston or Salem. There is not so much noise here as
there was in Boston.
"Mamma has told you about Mr. Rathbone's place, but I do not think she
has told you about one place by the wall. The wall is run over with
all sorts of vines, and there are summer-houses close up by the wall,
and a little brook rippling in front, and a great many mighty trees in
front, so that not a ray of the sun could peep through.
"On Sunday, the great Easter Sunday, we went to the Chapel of the
Blind, and stayed through the Communion service.
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