ment of all around her, she began gradually to revive. Her pulse improved; the respiration was less difficult, and she spent a comparatively calm and peaceful night. I did not retire till midnight; and I desired to be called at three in the morning. Never was I more astonished than when, on entering the sick room, my dearest daughter cast her delighted eye upon me; and reached out her hand, and said, with a heavenly smile, "I am better." Mr. Ives of Chertsey, who, as I before mentioned, slept every night under my roof, had been early called up to a distant patient; but before he went, he discovered that the leg, which, the day before, had lost all sensation, was considerably swollen and inflamed. He immediately applied a blister to the part, and said, that he had still hopes. The swelling and inflammation continued to increase, till the leg became sensible of pain, on the slightest touch. Dr. Pope visited her early in the morning; and after carefully examining all the symptoms, he pronounced that there were sufficient grounds for hope

that all might yet succeed according to our wishes and after giving his judicious directions, he said, in his kind way, "I hope we shall still keep thee, and raise thee up again to do more good among thy neighbours." The disease seemed now to have been transferred from the vitals to the extremities; and the doctor said, "our attention must now be chiefly directed to the leg." This information, it is needless to say, filled us all with unspeakable joy: and it would be almost as difficult to conceive the delight of this day, as the awful darkness of that which preceded it. Never shall I forget the angelic countenance of my dear daughter during this happy day. As soon as she saw her mother, she said, "O mother! this is life from the dead:" and seemed at a loss for language to express her gratitude and thankfulness. I read some of the most beautiful Psalms to her; and particularly that, on the restoration of the Jews from captivity. These words especially were literally fulfilled, and we repeated them over and over again, "Our mouths were

filled with laughter; and we were like them that dream." We congratulated each other; we wrote letters to our friends; we thanked God; we knelt around her bed, and poured out our hearts before our merciful and compassionate Father, and intreated him to accomplish what he had begun, and again to raise up the object of our ardent affection to health and happiness. The whole soul of my sweet daughter was filled with admiring love and gratitude. The bitterness of death, and the pangs of separation, now seemed to be over; and we thought there was scarcely any thing remaining for us to do, but to " thank God, and take courage." The pulse resumed an almost natural course; the respiration was free; no pain; no head-ache; nothing but the leg seemed to demand our attention: and though this was exquisitely sensible to the touch, we almost rejoiced in the pain, because it seemed to be the bitter remedy that was to restore the patient to perfect health. During, however, this general exultation, I felt, at times, a secret misgiving.

Surely, thought I, God has not thus lifted me up, to cast me down again: but O, if this should be the case! I knew there was sufficient cause for thus humbling me in the dust before him. I saw clearly that I had been idolizing my daughter, and that she had entwined herself round the heart of my dear wife and myself, in a way that we had not suspected. This brought me, in private, to the throne of grace, to beg, if possible, that my sinful affections might be corrected in some other way, than by the loss of my dear child. Still, I could not get rid of the words-" thou hast lifted me up, and cast me down again." This feeling was, I trust, mercifully intended to prevent my being exalted above measure; and being thus utterly overwhelmed, when the dreadful stroke was to be inflicted.

My dear daughter now expressed her earnest desire to devote herself entirely to the service of the blessed Saviour. She considered herself as owing not only her creation and salvation to his boundless mercy, but even a sort of resurrection from

the dead; and the language of her grateful heart was, 66 'What shall I render unto God, for all the mercies he has done unto me?" But here she spake with trembling. "I am so afraid," said she, "lest these impressions should die away, when I am restored to life and health, and I should forget the vows I made in the day of my affliction! O pray for me, that I may be kept from falling, and may glorify my heavenly Father." In similar language, she expressed herself to her aunt; and among other things said "O how differently does every thing appear on a death-bed, to what it did before!" Her aunt read to her several hymns and psalms, and particularly the 116th and 121st. She begged her to read over again several parts of these psalms, and especially the peculiarly appropriate first nine verses of the 116th.

Having, about noon, a fair opportunity of talking with her a few minutes alone, I asked her some questions on what had passed the previous day; such as, whether she was sensible and collected in the dread