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the duke gave him, and which he valued as one of the chief of his boyish treasures, will hang in his roomfor still we have a room that we call his.
You will understand, you will feel, this sorrow with us as few can. My poor husband is much prostrated.
I need not say more: you know what this must be to a father's heart.
But still I repeat what I said when I saw you last.
Our dead are ministering angels; they teach us to love, they fill us with tenderness for all that can suffer.
These weary hours when sorrow makes us for the time blind and deaf and dumb, have their promise.
These hours come in answer to our prayers for nearness to God It is always our treasure that the lightning strikes .... I have poured out my heart to you because you can understand.
While I was visiting in Hanover, where Henry died, a poor, deaf old slave woman, who has still five children in bondage, came to comfort me. “Bear up, dear soul, she said; you must bear it, for the Lord loves ye.”
She said further, “Sunday is a heavy day to me, 'cause I can't work, and can't hear preaching, and can't read, so I can't keep my mind off my poor children.
Some on 'em the blessed Master's got, and they's safe; but, oh, there are five that I don't know where they are.”
What are our mother sorrows to this!
I shall try to search out and redeem these children, though, from the ill success of efforts already made, I fear it will be hopeless.
Every sorrow I have, every lesson on the sacredness of family love, makes me the more determined to resist to the last this dreadful evil that makes so many mothers so much deeper mourners than I ever can be. ...
Affectionately yours, H. B. Stowe.
