Each day will tell its proper task;
What others do, that shalt thou prize,
In thine own work thy guerdon lies.
This above all: hate none.
The rest--Leave it to God.
He knoweth best.]

Half-past ten at night.

Waiting for my child. I seem to fancy it the pledge that all these
things shall be.

Born five minutes before twelve. Thank God. New Year's Day, 1857.

September 20, 1860.

And the same child, our Noel, our first-born, after being for nearly
four years our delight and our joy, was carried off by scarlet fever in
forty-eight hours. This day week he and I had a great romp together. On
Friday his restless head, with its bright blue eyes and tangled golden
hair, tossed all day upon his pillow. On Saturday night the fifteenth, I
carried him here into my study, and laid his cold still body here where
I write. Here too on Sunday night came his mother and I to that holy
leave-taking.

My boy is gone, but in a higher and better sense than was in my mind
when I wrote four years ago what stands above--I feel that my fancy has
been fulfilled. I say heartily and without bitterness--Amen, so let it
be.