Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe

[482] recently, “The worst that can befall a man is to stop thinking of God and begin to think of himself; if trials make us self-absorbed, they hurt us.” Well, dear, pardon me for this outpour. I loved you — I love you --and therefore wanted you to know just what I felt. Now, dear, this is over, don't think you must reply to it or me. I know how much you have to do,--yes, I know all about an aching head and an overtaxed brain. This last work of yours is to be your best, I think, and I hope it will bring you enough to buy an orange grove in Sicily, or somewhere else, and so have lovely weather such as we have.

Your ancient admirer,¹ who usually goes to bed at eight o'clock, was convicted by me of sitting up after eleven over the last installment of Daniel Deronda, and he is full of it. We think well of Guendoline, and that she is n't much more than young ladies in general so far.

Next year, if I can possibly do it, I will send you some of our oranges. I perfectly long to have you enjoy them.

P. S. I am afraid I shall write you again when I am reading your writings, they are so provokingly suggestive of things one wants to say.