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 she ever uttered,—words of transient madness yet most characteristic:—‘Oh God! help me, is all my cry. Yet 1 have little faith in the Paternal love I need, so ruthless or so negligent seems the government of this earth. I feel calm, yet sternly, towards Fate. This last plot against me has been so cruelly, cunningly wrought, that I shall never acquiesce. I submit, because useless resistance is degrading, but I demand an explanation. I see that it is probable I shall never receive one, while I live here, and suppose I can bear the rest of the suspense, since I have comprehended all its difficulties in the first moments. Meanwhile, I live day by day, though no on manna.’ But now comes a sweeter, gentler strain:— ‘I have been the object of great love from the noble and the humble; I have felt it towards both. Yet I am tired but,— tired of thinking and hoping,—tired of seeing. men err and bleed. I take interest in some plans,--Socialism for instance,—but the interest is shallow as the plans. These are needed, are even good; but man will still blunder and weep, as he has done for so many thousand years. Coward and footsore, gladly would I; creep into some green recess, where I might see a few; not unfriendly faces, and where not more wretches should come than I could relieve. Yes! I am weary, and faith soars and sings no more. Nothing good of me. is left except at the bottom of the heart, a melting—tenderness:— “ She loves much.” ’
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