leaves of the Journal for this year, we feel that the change and break were necessary to her as well as to the Doctor
There were limits even to her strength.
. A sort of melancholy of confusion, not knowing how I can possibly get through with the various requisitions made upon my time, strength, thought, and sympathy.
Usually I feel, even in these moods, the nearness of divine help.
To-day it seems out of my consciousness, but is not on that account out of my belief....”
“The past week one dreadful hurry.
Things look colorless when you whirl so fast past them.”
“The month ending to-day seems the most hurried of my life.
Woman's Club, Saturday Club, Philosophical group, Maud's music, ditto party, and all her dressing and gayety, beside writing for [the Woman
's] Journal, . . . two lectures [Salem and Weston
], both gratuitous, and the care of getting up and advertising Bishop Ferrette
And in all these things I seem not to do, rather than to do, the dissipation of effort so calls me away from the quiet, concentrated sort of work which I love.”
It was time for the Doctor
to say “Come!”
and to carry her off to those tropical solitudes they had learned to love so well.
Yet the departure was painful, for Maud must be left behind.
On March 1 we read:--
“Of to-day I wish to preserve the fact that, waking early in painful perplexity about Maud, Santo Domingo
, etc., and praying that the right way might open for me and for all of us, my prayer seemed answered by the very great comfort I had in hearing the ”