her beloved child; but hearing, at length, her piercing and convulsive sobs, she hastened to the immediate scene of distress; and was so affected, as to be incapable of restraining her poignant grief. When my daughter had a little revived, and saw the affliction of her tender mother, she affectionately requested her to leave the room. Afterwards, thinking this request might seem unkind, she expressed the deepest concern; and said, "OI fear my dearest mother will think, when I requested her to go away, that I did not wish to have her company. O, tell her it was because I grieved to see her distress, that I made the request. If I could seem unkind to such a mother, it would be sad indeed!"

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As she was now somewhat relieved from her most painful and distressing symptoms, we wished her, if possible, to get a little rest. After a short time, advancing softly to the side of her pillow, I observed her, with her hand and her eyes lifted up, in earnest prayer: and then she uttered, with extreme

emphasis and energy, the following couplet of a hymn, which I had never before heard:

O! for a glance of heavenly day,

To melt this stubborn stone away!

Her strength would not allow her to proceed, but she was mentally engaged in prayer for a considerable time; and I doubt not was making the complaint, and urging the petition, contained in the hymn, which I place at the foot of the page. She soon after repeated a line or two of the hymn, beginning with

There is a fountain fill'd with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains;-

* O for a glance of heavenly day,
To melt this stubborn stone away;
And thaw, with beams of love divine,
This heart, this frozen heart of mine.
The rocks can rend, the earth can quake,
The seas can roar, the mountains shake;
Of feeling, all things show some sign,
But this unfeeling heart of mine.

and I again directed her attention to the all-atoning sacrifice; and especially to Jesus Christ, as our great "High Priest, who maketh intercession for us, at the right hand of God." I said "We have not a High Priest, who cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but one, who having suffered being tempted, is able to succour them that are tempted." I added, "do consider, my dear, in what various ways the Scriptures address themselves to us, in order to comfort those, who, like you, are in deep distress. God has not only bound himself by promise, but confirmed that assurance by oath, that, by two immutable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie, we might have

To hear the sorrows thou hast felt,
What but an adamant would melt!
But I can read each moving line,
And nothing moves this heart of mine.
Eternal Spirit! mighty God!

Do thou apply the Saviour's blood!
'Tis his rich blood, and his alone,

Can move and melt this heart of stone.

strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold of the hope set before us." Her mind appeared to be comforted by these, and similar passages of Scripture; and she repeated after me many of the most striking parts of them; but yet she seemed almost afraid of taking to herself the consolation they offered, lest she should deceive herself. On one occasion, when she had been again saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit! I said, "my dear, angels are ready to conduct you to Abraham's bosom. You know they conducted Lazarus thither." "O yes!" said she, "and I hope they will mine; You think then he will not reject me?" "Think! my dear child,—I am sure he will not it is impossible he should! There never was an instance, and never will be, whilst the world continues, of a trembling sinner, clinging, as you do, to the Saviour, who was rejected. I could not believe the Scriptures, and should have no hope of salvation myself, if I could doubt of the willingness of God to receive those who

come unto him through Jesus Christ, as I am sure you do."

In this, and such like language, I frequently addressed my beloved daughter, in this her day of sore affliction and distress; and I trust the Holy Spirit, to whom I earnestly looked for aid, carried the consolation I so anxiously desired, to her heart. She became, towards the close of the day, exceedingly tranquil; the bitterness of death seemed to have passed, and a smile of serenity was diffused over her countenance. Her breathing, however, was still most difficult; and though the symptoms were less alarming as threatening instant dissolution; yet there was no change in her malady which could afford us the most distant hope of recovery. Her pulse was scarcely perceptible; it was necessary to continue the fanning incessantly; and one servant relieved another, by rubbing her almost senseless extremities, through the whole day.

In the night, however, to the astonish