And it is plain that self-love
cannot die without a fearful struggle.
MAY 26, 1846.-How long it is since I have written in my journal! We
have had a winter full of cares, perplexities and sicknesses. Mother
began it by such a severe attack of inflammatory rheumatism as I
could not have supposed she could live through. Her sufferings were
dreadful, and I might almost say her patience was, for I often
thought it would be less painful to hear her groan and complain, than
to witness such heroic fortitude, such sweet docility under God's
hand. I hope I shall never forget the lessons I have learned in her
sick-room. Ernest says he never shall cease to rejoice that she lives
with us, and that he can watch over her health. He, has indeed been
like a son to her, and this has been a great solace amid all her
sufferings. Before she was able to leave the room, poor little Una
was prostrated by one of her ill turns, and is still very feeble. The
only way in which she can be diverted is by reading to her, and I
have done little else these two months but hold her in my arms,
singing little songs and hymns, telling stories and reading what few
books I can find that are unexciting, simple, yet entertaining. My
precious little darling! She bears the yoke in her youth without a
frown, but it is agonizing to see her suffer so. How much easier it
would be to bear all her physical infirmities myself! I suppose to
those who look on from the outside, we must appear like a most
unhappy family, since we hardly get free from one trouble before
another steps in.
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