Here I always sympathize with Mr. Alcott. He views
the relation truly.'
* * * * *
'_Dec. 3, 1840._ ---- bids me regard her "as a sick child;"
and the words recall some of the sweetest hours of existence.
My brother Edward was born on my birth-day, and they said he
should be my child. But he sickened and died just as the bud
of his existence showed its first bright hues. He was some
weeks wasting away, and I took care of him always half the
night. He was a beautiful child, and became very dear to me
then. Still in lonely woods the upturned violets show me the
pleading softness of his large blue eyes, in those hours when
I would have given worlds to prevent his suffering, and
could not. I used to carry him about in my arms for hours; it
soothed him, and I loved to feel his gentle weight of helpless
purity upon my heart, while night listened around. At last,
when death came, and the soul took wing like an overtasked
bird from his sweet form, I felt what I feel now. Might I free
----, as that angel freed him!
'In daily life I could never hope to be an unfailing fountain
of energy and bounteous love.
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