I know that day after day such feelings will return upon me.

I am a slave--a prisoner--but that is nothing; if it were myself alone I would not complain, but I am forbidden to rescue my son from ruin, and what was once my only consolation is become the crowning source of my despair.
Have I no faith in God?
I try to look to Him and raise my heart to heaven, but it will cleave to the dust.

I can only say, 'He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: He hath made my chain heavy.

He hath filled me with bitterness--He hath made me drunken with wormwood.' I forget to add, 'But though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies.

For He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.' I ought to think of this; and if there be nothing but sorrow for me in this world, what is the longest life of misery to a whole eternity of peace?
And for my little Arthur--has he no friend but me?
Who was it said, 'It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish ?'.