feelings for her, she strove to conceal the sense of her own sufferings. It pleased the Lord wonderfully to support my dear Mrs. Newton, and she had a tolerable night's rest, though I did not expect the child would live till morning. On Tuesday, the fourth, about nine in the morning, we all thought her dying, and waited nearly two hours by her bedside for her last breath. She was much convulsed and in great agonies. I said, "My dear, you are "going to heaven, and I hope, by the grace of God, "we, in due time, shall follow you." She could not speak, but let us know that she attended to what I said by a gentle nod of her head, and a sweet smile. I repeated to her many passages of Scripture, and verses of hymns, to each of which she made the same kind of answer. Though silent, her looks were more expressive than words. Towards eleven o'clock, a great quantity of coagulated phlegm, which she had not strength to bring up, made her rattle violently in the throat, which we considered as a sign that death was at hand; and, as she seemed unwilling to take something that was offered her, we were loth to disturb her in her last moments (as we supposed) by pressing her. I think she must have died in a quarter of an hour, had not Dr. Benamor just then come into the room. He felt her pulse, and observed, that she was not near death by her pulse, and desired something might be given her. She was perfectly sensible, though still unable to speak, but expressed her unwillingness to take any thing, by very strong efforts. However, she yielded to entreaty, and a tea-spoonful or two of some liquid soon cleared the passage, and she revived. Her pain, however, was extreme, and her disappointment great. I never saw her so near impatience as upon this occasion. As soon as she could speak, she cried,

“Oh cruel, cruel, to recal me, when I was so happy "and so near gone! I wish you had not come; I "long to go home." But in a few minutes she grew composed, assented to what the doctor said of her duty to wait the Lord's time; and from that hour, though her desires to depart, and to be with her Saviour, were stronger and stronger, she cheerfully took whatever was offered her, and frequently asked for something of her own accord.

How often, if we were to have our choice, should we counteract our own prayers! I had entreated the Lord to prolong her life, till she could leave an indisputable testimony behind her, for our comfort; yet, when I saw her agony, and heard her say, “Oh, how cruel to stop me!" I was, for a moment, almost of her mind, and could hardly help wishing that the doctor had delayed his visit a little longer. But, if she had died then, we should have been deprived of what we saw and heard the two following days, the remembrance of which is now much more precious to me than silver or gold.

When the doctor came on Wednesday, she entreated him to tell her how long he thought she might live. He said, "Are you in earnest, my dear?" She answered, "Indeed I am." At that time there were great appearances that a mortification was actually begun. He therefore told her, he thought it possible she might hold out till eight in the evening, but did not expect she could survive midnight at farthest. On hearing him say so, low as she was, her eyes seemed to sparkle with their former vivacity, and fixing them on him with an air of ineffable satisfaction, she said, "Oh, that is good news in"deed." And she repeated it as such to a person who came soon after into the room, and said, with lively emotions of joy, "The doctor tells me I shall

"stay here but a few hours more." In the afternoon she noticed and counted the clock, I believe, every time it struck, and, when it struck seven, she said, "Another hour and then." But it pleased the Lord to spare her to us another day.

She suffered much in the course of Wednesday night, and was quite resigned and patient. Our kind servants, who, from their love to her and us, watched her night and day with a solicitude and tenderness which wealth is too poor to purchase, were the only witnesses of the affectionate and grateful manner in which she repeatedly thanked them for their services and attention to her. Though such an acknowledgment was no more than their due, yet coming from herself, and at such a time, they highly valued it. She added her earnest prayers that the Lord should reward them. To her prayers my heart says, Amen. May they be comforted of the Lord in their dying hours as she was, and meet with equal kindness from those about them!

I was surprised on Thursday morning to find her not only alive, but, in some respects, better. The tokens of mortification again disappeared. This was her last day, and it was a memorable day to us. When Dr. Benamor asked her how she was, she answered, “Truly happy; and, if this be dying, it is a pleasant thing to die;" [the very expression which a dear friend of mine used upon her deathbed a few years ago.] She said to me, about ten o'clock, "My dear uncle, I would not change con"ditions with any person upon earth. Oh, how gra"cious is the Lord to me! Oh, what a change is "before me!" She was several times asked, if she could wish to live, provided the Lord should restore her to perfect health? Her answer was, "Not for

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"all the world," and sometimes, "Not for a thou"sand worlds. Do not weep for me, my dear "aunt; but rather rejoice and praise on my account. "I shall now have the advantage of dear Miss "Patty Barham, (for whom she had a very tender affection, and who had been long in a languishing "state,) for I shall go before her." We asked her if she would choose a text for her own funeral sermon? She readily mentioned, "Whom the Lord "loveth he chasteneth." "That," said she, "has "been my experience; my afflictions have been many, but not too many; nor has the greatest of "them been too great; I praise him for them all.” "But, after a pause, she said, Stay, I think there "is another text which may do better; let it be, "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.' That is my experience now." She likewise chose a hymn to be sung after the sermon. -Olney Hymns, book ii. hymn 72.

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But I must check myself, and set down but a small part of the gracious words which the Lord enabled her to speak in the course of the day, though she was frequently interrupted by pains and agonies. She had something to say, either in the way of admonition or consolation, as she thought most suitable, to every one whom she saw. To her most constant attendant, she said, "Be sure you con"tinue to call upon the Lord; and, if you think he "does not hear you now, he will at last, as he "has heard me." She spoke a great deal to an intimate friend, who was with her every day, which I hope she will long remember, as the testimony of her dying Eliza. Among other things, she said,

* The last time she was asked this question, she said, (as I have been since informed,) " I desire to have no choice."

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But

"See how comfortable the Lord can make a dying"bed! Do you think that you shall have such an "assurance when you come to die?" Being answered, "I hope so, my dear;" she replied, "do you earnestly, and with all your heart, pray to "the Lord for it? If you seek him, you shall surely "find him." She then prayed affectionately and fervently for her friend, afterwards for her cousin, and then for another of our family who was present. Her prayer was not long, but every word was weighty, and her manner very affecting; the purport was, that they might all be taught and comforted by the Lord. About five in the afternoon she desired me to pray with her once more. Surely I then prayed from my heart. When I had finished, she said, Amen. I said, "My dear child, have I ex"pressed your meaning?" She answered, "Oh, yes!" and then added, "I am ready to say, Why "are his chariot wheels so long in coming? But "I hope he will enable me to wait his hour with "patience." These were the last words I heard her speak.

Mrs. Newton's heart was much, perhaps too much, attached to this dear child; which is not to be wondered at, considering what a child she was, and how long and how much she had suffered. But the Lord graciously supported her in this trying season. Indeed, there was much more cause for joy than for grief; yet the pain of separation will be felt. Eliza well knew her feelings; and a concern for her was, I believe, the last anxiety that remained with her. She said to those about her, Try "to persuade my aunt to leave the room; I think "I shall soon go to sleep, I shall not remain with "you till the morning." Her aunt, however was the last person who heard her speak, and was

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