AM going to write this Diary, because, all alone as I am, I shall be better and happier to have something, if only a sheet of paper, to which I can speak freely; and I have long ago learned that the best and truest way to make those happy with whom you live, is to try by every means to be happy yourself.

Clara has been asking me to come here and live with her ever since our mother died, but I stayed away as long as I could. Everybody should, if possible, have a home of their own. I am too old and too set in my ways to like to be disturbed; but there was no help for it, and so I wrote her I would

come. It was a very sisterly, kind answer she sent back by the next post. I ought to be happy here, and I do not doubt, when I become accustomed to the new life, I shall. Mr Spencer came for me. I know it was a great thing; for he is only a poor minister, with a small salary. I had not seen him for years. Clara has been home several times since she was married, but, though she never said it-she is not one to complain-we knew well enough that it was all they could afford. She brought the baby, and there was always one, with her; and she grew so much thinner and older-looking each time, that I think it always made my mother sad, until she became accustomed to see her, and found her heart had grown riper and richer as her youth and beauty faded. Mr Spencer has changed so much from the young, slim, handsome man he was when they were married. He is slim enough now, but he has many care-wrinkles on his face, and his hair is gray. Then he is moderate in all he does and says, so I hardly like to write it, but it is very true-so country-ministerish in everything. But he is good,-how good no one can ever know, unless they have been left alone, and dependent for kindness, as I am. When he saw how much I minded parting from the old home, he led me, I am sure I do not know how, to talking all about the days when we were young, Clara and I; and then he wanted to go with me and see the places

about which I told him stories.

It was much easier

to look at them again with him. I had so dreaded turning the key in the door for the last time and handing it to another to open, when it should be my home no longer, but in some way he cheated me out of this. I do not know how it happened; I think he must have had an idea it would be trying to me, for he gave me so many things to pack away when I was in the carriage; and before I looked back, the door was shut, and the boy who had been waiting to take the key to the new occupant had gone. Then it was so thoughtful in him not to try and comfort me by any set phrases as we drove away; all he did was to tuck the rug down more closely around me, and to see, without asking a question, that I was comfortable. I hope, if I am going to write in this way, I shall feel all God's mercies and little kindnesses to me. It is so much easier to see the sorrowful dispensations, so much more natural to complain, than to give thanks.

Mr Spencer's parish in Wilton is a considerable distance from Newton; and, when we reached the end of our railroad ride, we had still ten miles of driving. Mr Spencer told me, just before we reached the station, that he had directed his two boys to come over for us, and he had no doubt we should see them when the train stopped. I knew the names of all the children, but, as I said before, I had only seen them