you. And I am wishing--As I wish, I stop and ask myself, "Would I be
there if I could have my choice?" And I remember those lines of
Emerson's which you quoted:

"Though love repine and reason chafe,
There comes a voice without reply,
'Twere man's perdition to be safe,
When for the Truth he ought to die."

I wouldn't turn back if I could, but my heart cries out against "the
voice which speaks without reply."

Things are growing deeper with me in all sorts of ways. Family
affections stand out so desirably and vivid, like meadows green after
rain. And religion means more. The love of a few dear human people and
the love of the divine people out of sight, are all that one has to lean
on in the graver hours of life. I hope I come back again--I very much
hope I come back again; there are so many finer things that I could do
with the rest of my days--bigger things. But if by any chance I should
cross the seas to stay, you'll know that that also will be right and as
big as anything that I could do with life, and something that you'll be
able to be just as proud about as if I had lived to fulfil all your
other dear hopes for me. I don't suppose I shall talk of this again. But
I wanted you to know that underneath all the lightness and ambition
there's something that I learnt years ago in Highbury[1]. I've become a
little child again in God's hands, with full confidence in His love and
wisdom, and a growing trust that whatever He decides for me will be best
and kindest.

[Footnote 1: We resided over thirteen years at Highbury, London, N.,