destitute by her loss; and affectionately commending to his care the unfortunate: girl whom her death was to cast once more friendless upon the world.

While he read to her the office for the sick, she listened with the steady attention of a mind in its full strength. When he came to the words "Thou hast been my hope from my youth!" "Yes!" said she; "He has indeed been my hope from my youth. He blessed the prayers and the. labours of my parents, so that I never remember a time when I could rest in any other trust; yet, till now, I never knew that hope in its full strength and brightness." Then laying her hand, now chill with the damps of death, upon my arm, she said with great energy, "Ellen, I trust I can triumphantly appeal to you whether our blessed faith brings not comfort unspeakable, but how strong, how suitable, how glorious its consolations are, you will never know, till, like me, you are bereft of all others, and, like me, find them sufficient, when all others fail."

Towards evening, her voice became fee-,

ble, she breathed with pain, and all her bodily powers seemed to decay. But that which was Heaven-born was imperishable. The love of God and man remained unshaken. Complaining that her mind was grown too feeble to form a connected prayer, she bade me repeat to her the triumphant strains in which David exults in the care of the Good Shepherd. When I had ended, "Yes," said she, " He knows how to comfort me in the dark valley, for he has trod it before me, and what am I that I should die amidst the cares of kind friends, and He amidst the taunts of his enemies! Ellen, your mind is entire,-thank Him, thank Him fervently for me, that I am mercifully dealt with."

As I knelt down to obey her, she laid her hand upon my head as if to bless me. At first, she repeated after me the expressions which pleased her, afterwards single words, then, after a long interval, the name of Him in whom she trusted. When I rose from my knees, her eyes were closed,—the hand which had been lifted in prayer was

sunk upon her breast. A smile of triumph fingered on her face. It was the beam of

a sun that had set.

into rest.

The saint had entered

CHAP. XVIII.

She hath ta'en farewell.

Upon her hearth the fire is dead,
The smoke in air hath vanished.
The last long lingering look is given;
The shuddering start! the inward groan!
And the pilgrim on her way is gone.

JOHN WILSON.

As I tore myself from the remains of my friend, I felt that I had nothing more to lose. My soul, which had so obstinately clung to the earth, had no longer whereon to fix her hold. Words cannot describe the moment when, having assisted in the last sad office of woman, I was led from the chamber of death to wander through my desolate dwelling. Man cannot utter what I felt when I left the grave of my friend and turned me to the solitary wilderness again. Yet even the agony of my grief

had no likeness to the stern horror which had once overwhelmed my soul. I was in sorrow indeed, but not in despair,-I was lonely, but not forsaken. My interests in this scene of things were shaken,—were changed, but not annihilated; for the world can never be a desert while gladdened by the sensible presence of its Maker: nor life be a blank to one who acts for eternity. The mere effort to become resigned, forbade the listlessness of despair; and even partial success gave some relief from uniformity of anguish. But I was new to the lesson of resignation, and as yet faintly imbued with that spirit which accepts with filial thankfulness the chastisements of a father. The accents of submission were choked by those of sorrow; and when I tried to say " Thy will be done," I could only bow my head and weep.

It was not till the first bitterness of grief was past, that I recollected all the cause I had to grieve. My first feeling of desolateness was scarcely heightened by the reflection, that I was once more cast upon the world without refuge or means of sub