I cannot frame language so that it will express to you how grateful I am for that large charity & thoughtful consideration which prompted you to speak so gently when you could have wounded so deeply. I had wished ever so much to receive a reply from you, & yet dreaded it—for I could not believe it possible, under the circumstances, that you could write a letter that would not give me pain, no matter how hard you might try to avoid it. But you did.—It Ⓐemendationwas almost a miracle. Therefore, is it strange that I am grateful?

And I thank you for the happy surprise the picture brought—I thank you more than I can tell—though I never blamed you in the least for withholding it before. formerly. I never dreampt of such a thing—for I believed then, & still believe, that whatever you do is always right. And so, now that you have set aside that just & proper rule of conduct to give me this gratification, I know that you have done it with a free will, & that the gift is sent without reluctance or distrust. You know too well the high honor & respect I hold you in, my sister, to fear that you can ever have cause to repent your transgressed law.

You say to me: “I shall pray for you daily.” Not any words that ever were spoken to me have touched me like these. They have recurred to my mind often & again—& so I have been thinking, thinking, thinking—& what I have arrived at, is the conviction that I would be less than a man if I went on in my old careless way while you were praying for me—if I showed lack of respect, worthiness, reverence, while the needs of one like me were being voiced in the august presence of God. I had not thought of this before, ◇◇◇ I beg that you will continue to pray for me—for I have a vague, far-away sort of idea that it may not be wholly in vain. In one respect, at least, it shall not be in vain—for I will so mend my conduct that I shall grow worthier of your prayers, & your good will & sisterly solicitude, as the days go by. Furthermore, (—it has taken me long time to make Ⓐemendationup my mind to say these grave words, which, once said, cannot be recalled,) I will “pray with you,” as you ask: and with such faith & such encouragement withal, as are in me, though feeble & of little worth I feel they must be. It seems strange enough to me—this, reverence, this solemnity, this supplication—& yet, you must surely have some faith that it will not necessarily be useless, else you would not have suggested it. You do not speak carelessly. {And you {You Ⓐemendationpreceive that I do not think you have written “too earnestly.”}

I was so sorry Charlie could not come further West with me, for he is a good traveling comrade, & if he has any unworthy traits in his nature the partiality born of old companionship has blinded me to them. Mrs. ⒶemendationFairbanks was very proud of him that night of the reception in at her house. But I am glad, now, that he did not come to St. Louis. He would have had no rest here—I have none—& it is a muddy, smoky, mean city to run about in. I am called East.—Must Ⓐemendationfinish my f Ⓐemendationvisit here in January. I leave Thursday—24th.1explanatory note I shall rest in Chicago & in Cleveland, & I desire also to tarry a day & a night in Elmira (Monday 28th) if your doors are still open to me & you have not reconsidered your kind invitation.

I fear you did not expect to hear from me so soon—but still you will forgive this letter, will you not? Consider, my indulgent sister, that after all it is only I that so offend. Good-night. The peace that belongeth unto the good, the just & the beautiful, abide with you alway!

—Which is the prayer of him who is proud to write himself—