Tried to walk out and could not: have read nothing this week, my mind
almost overweighting me with its upbraidings and miseries: my
children very ill, night and morning, with a fever, makes me
disconsolate, and yet how happy must be the death of a child! It
bears its sufferings with an innocent patience that maketh man
ashamed, and with it the future is nothing but returning to sleep,
with the thought, no doubt, of waking to be with its playthings
again.