It is not the parting alone, but it is the horror of the grave,--the tender child alone in the far off gloomy burial-ground, the heavy earth piled on the tender little breast, the helplessness that looked to you for protection which you could not give, and the emptiness of the home to which you return when the child is gone.

He who made a mother's heart and they who have borne it, alone can tell the unutterable pain of all this.

The little child is so carefully and tenderly watched over and cherished while it is with you,--and then to leave it alone in the dread grave where the winds and the rain beat upon it! I know they do not feel it, but since mine has been there, I have never felt sheltered from the storms when they come.
The rain seems to fall on my bare heart.

I have said more than I meant to have said on this subject, and have left myself little heart to write of anything else.

Tell Mammy that it is a great disappointment to me that her name is not to have a place in my household.