‘Darling--my own darling Letitia! Oh, when she looked so happy, did she not see the angels--or her beloved Father--or the Bedwells and old Rodman whom she had so tended,--perhaps all coming to welcome her,--or the loving Saviour Himself? I do not grudge her to Him; but oh, what a wealth of love I have (apparently) lost in that one young heart! Her _last_ parcel of letters to me contained sweet commissions for her poor.... I dare say that I shall hear from you to-morrow; but it is a relief to me to write now to you, who were so kind and dear to her. I went out before breakfast this morning. A thrush was singing so sweetly. I saw the first crocus of the year. My flower,--my lovely one,--she may now be singing in joy, while we sit in sorrow.’