peared with him."* Previous to this incident, I had observed at times that our dear Mary seemed seized with a fear of death. One night she sent for me to come to her immediately. She asked me to pray with her, for she said, "Satan alarms me dreadfully by always representing to me the death of my body." But, since then, I have not perceived any thing of the kind; on the contrary, she rejoiced at the wasting away of her body, while thinking of that moment, when set free from the flesh polluted with sin, her soul would enter into the full and glorious liberty of the children of God. She felt also the assurance that the seed which her corruptible body contained would one day rise a glorious and incorruptible body.

I

From that blessed day my sister felt herself compelled to announce to every one who came near her "the unsearchable riches of Christ." Often little understood by those who saw her, they attributed to her own strength the joy and peace with which she was filled. She was most anxious to say every thing to convince them that nothing good can proceed from the natural man, and that all she had proceeded from the free gift of God through Jesus Christ. could follow with particular interest the progressive development of the life of God in her, during the few last weeks of her illness. Her desire to depart and to be with Christ increased every day, and she often begged me to pray that God would give her patience to wait for the glorious moment. Mary also arranged all her little temporal affairs. She often, both night and day, expressed her desire to hear the praises of God sung. When the pain in her chest prevented her from joining in praise, she said to me one day, "Oh! how delightful it will be in heaven! I shall have no more pain in my chest, I shall sing the praises of God

* We have omitted another dream introduced into the former part of the narrative, and we insert this with much hesitation. Sick persons often place a dangerous reliance on dreams.-ED.

there." Hers was now a life of praise and prayer.

On June the 27th, she requested me to write to our relatives to tell them she hoped to meet them all in the abode of the redeemed-that her last request was that they would seriously occupy themselves with the care of their souls-that they would employ the time while it was still given to them, to lay hold of, and to receive by faith the free grace which Jesus offers to all. She desired that we would all rejoice with her in her near departure. She at the same time exhorted me again to prepare.

The physician having told her she was near her end, she shook hands with him, thanking him for his care and attention. She then wished him "good bye," and also all those who visited her on that and the following days. Three days afterwards, she said to me, "A very extraordinary circumstance has happened to me; I have hesitated whether I should tell it to you or not, but I think I ought to tell

you, that you might be strengthened by it. Many trials will still be yours. I was quite awake, when I saw the heavens open-I saw God the Father seated on his throne, Jesus my Saviour at his right hand, and the redeemed around the throne, singing the song of the Lamb. İ saw all this with my own eyes; but I do not tell you how it was, no human tongue can speak of these things-it appeared to me that I saw with the eyes, my bodily eyes, and yet! ... Oh never could I have expected, while in this body of death, to have seen such great things. Oh! if you knew! if you could but know!"

July 2nd.-At two o'clock, after having conversed with us about the things relating to eternal life, this dear sister had a dreadful attack, which left her quite cold in a few minutes. "Oh, how ill I am," she said. I observed it, but could not find any thing to relieve her, when she said, "Perhaps it is death!" Upon my saying I believed she was in her last conflict, she cried, "Oh! then, it is well!" and she waited in patient expectation the deliverance of

the Lord. Two hours afterwards she continued in the same state, and it appeared to me every moment that she was ceasing to breathe; she was quite cold, and the pulse scarcely beating. She said to me, Cannot you sing me a hymn? I should like to have

'For us the morning soon will dawn
Of an eternal day."

She appeared to follow me, and after the two last lines

"Soon shall pain have ceased,

And thou shalt rest in heaven."

She said, in a low voice, "Yes, very soon!" To all appearance she continued the same all that day, and the whole of the night. The third evening she was in great pain, and spoke but little. From time to time she said to me, "Why is the Lord so long coming? He will come himself-He has promised me. Pray, pray E

-, pray very much that the Lord may give me patience." At eleven o'clock in the morning, the doctor paid his accustomed visit— Mary asked him if she should be here below much longer. On his answering that in half-an-hour she might have finished with this life, her countenance assumed a very happy expression, and she said, "Are you quite sure, only half-an-hour? Oh, thanks-my God, I give thee thanks." Until four o'clock in the afternoon, she was silent and thoughtful, often asking what o'clock it was. She inquired if her doctor wished her to eat anything; on replying in the negative, she cried, "No longer eat, nor drink, nor dress myself! Oh, what happiness!" An hour afterwards she said, in a strong, firm voice, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing." (2 Tim. iv. 7, 8.) In the evening, when her friends took leave of her in tears, she said to them, "You should rejoice with me, and not be sorrowful." My husband then said, after embracing

her, that in all probability he should not again see her here below, "Very well!" said Mary, “ we shall very soon meet again in heaven." And very soon!-only four months had passed after that, when my husband also reached the heavenly harbour. During the whole of the night my dear sister was able to glorify the Lord by her conversation. Having addressed each member of our family in words of exhortation and encouragement as if they had been present, and often bidding each separately "farewell," she was silent for a moment, then all at once she cried, "I wish to enumerate all the mercies of God to me:-The Lord has always guided me-He has blessed me— e-He has given me many things good-I know, I feel the Lord has filled me with his love. I am so especially well in my soul!-I experience so much peace, so much joy-I am in communion with God, my Saviour is near me. What will it then be above? He that overcometh shall inherit all things. Oh, I shall overcome by Christ! What mercy! what love !— it is by grace, free grace, that I have so much joy. I only deserve condemnation, but it is given to me to receive this grace fully. If I appear without spot before the throne of God it is because Christ appears there for me! I am dressed in the wedding robe, I have the long white robe, and very soon I shall sing a new song with the hundred and forty-four thousand. Oh! how good it will be to be there on high!"

Between four and five o'clock in the morning, Mary said abruptly"Oh, E- how cold I am I am quite cold! (although she had been cold for thirty-eight hours, she had not appeared aware of it.)-Oh, now I hope the hour is come-Glory be to God!" I asked her if any thing detained her still here below? She said, "there is no longer anything— I am quite ready." At five o'clock her eyes appeared to seek for me, but they were covered with a film. "I no longer see, I no longer hearglory be to God! After a silence of a few seconds, I perceived she still sought for me, but without being

EXHORT one another daily, saith the Apostle, lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. The warning is spoken to Christians.Christians themselves are in great danger of falling, unawares and insensibly, into hardness and insensibility of heart. What, indeed, are almost all their difficulties in the Christian life, but such as are, in some shape or other, reducible to hardness of heart? It is easy to become thus hardened, and it may be done almost without knowing it, through the deceitfulness of sin.

Men easily become forgetful, both of God and eternal realities. Men may do this, even while keeping up the forms of daily devotion. The forms may occupy but a few moments of their being and effort, while the reality of supreme devotion to the world, and the schemes for self rather than God, may occupy all the day long, and take the entire energy and attention of the soul. But even without being a mere formalist, a man's heart may, if the Christian be not very watchful over himself, and watchful against the deceitfulness of sin, become insensibly forgetful of God, and destitute of all lively impressions of divine truth. Men may live very much like atheists in their hearts, very much without God in the world, and yet not imagine that anything with them is seriously wrong, or that they are putting in much doubt the question of the truth and good foundation of their Christian hope and character.

The departure of the heart from God by the deceitfulness of sin, and its becoming hardened, takes its commencement, and establishes its habit, almost before the Christian is aware of it. For this reason a man should be watchful to be always fervent in spirit, fervent in prayer. For the heart may depart from God, and sin exercise and practise its deceitfulness more successfully and more stealthily under the cloak and form of prayer than in any other way. Indeed, if the Christian should begin to stop

praying, when his heart first begins wandering, when he first becomes insensible-if he should break off from the throne of grace as soon as he begins to lose his fervour, and to come under the dominion of a lukewarm spirit, this would be likely to alarm him, to stop his defection, and to bring him back to God. But he goes on declining gradually, and nevertheless keeps up the form of prayer, and so becomes more and more insensible, and yet quite unaware of the extent of that insensibility.

Thus is fulfilled the deceitfulness of sin, against which the Apostle warns us, as so dangerous. Thus comes about the state called hardness of the heart, which by and by gets to be a confirmed forgetfulness of God, and insensibility to him. It is like. the gradual process of freezing in water. There are at first a multitude of little crystals stealing out over the surface, a variegated thin frost-work, which the least stir will break up. Then they shoot into one another, and gather consistency and firmness, and become a thin coating; and then layer after layer succeeds, till a thick body of ice is formed, undisturbed all winter. So it is with the heart forgetting God. At first it steals away from him in little things. Vain thoughts, and many cares, shoot out over the heart like a coating of frostwork. There may be many thoughts of beautiful things, pleasant schemes and plans, as beautiful as crystals, and seemingly to the heart as innocent; but, being without God, they become as ice, they take the heart a prisoner, they gather consistency and power, and shut up the heart gradually in a thick, deep coating of worldliness. They shut it out from God, and render it insensible to his love, and forgetful of him. By and by they get so thick and deep, that, like cakes of ice in a shallow stream, they reach even to the bottom, and the channel is all filled with ice.

Such is the state of many a man's heart in regard to God. And even a

man whose heart was once not insensible to divine love, a man who felt the grasp of the powers of the world to come upon him, a man who once had such a sense of eternal realities, that he thought neither the cares of life, nor the deceitfulness of riches, nor any of "the lusts of other things," could push them out of view, could intervene between him and them, could ward off their fire and power from his soul, even such a man, by gradual wandering in his heart from God, may not only lose all his sense of eternal things, but almost his feeling of his own immortality and accountability. He once felt as if nothing could seem to him of importance, except as connected with God and eternal reality and glory; as if no cloud of sense, no vain shadow of time, could intercept his clear, vivid vision, and consequent experience, of heavenly things. He saw God, Christ, angels, heaven, hell, time, eternity, the judgment; and he moved amidst these great scenes, always sensible of them, lifted up by them, and sometimes almost overpowered with his sense of their transcendant importance. This was his life of faith. But now how different!

But now, alas, how changed! The cares and pleasures of the world, and the lusts of other things, entering in, have choked the word, and it becometh unfruitful. Nay, it becometh powerless over the heart. The heart ceases to respond to its calls, its warnings, its exhortations, its promises. The heart becomes blind, the eye of faith is almost put out, a sleepy vail is before it, the things unseen and eternal have neither nearness nor power. Alas, how changed! A change very gradual, in the beginning perhaps almost imperceptible, but at length vast and deep, extending over the whole soul, over time, over eternity. Where is now the life of faith?

He that despiseth little things, by little and little shall he fall. A man may lose all the vividness and power of his Christian life by little and little; he may lose it by carelessness in little

things, by not watching in little things, by little neglects in prayer growing afterwards to great ones. His heart

may be fastened to the world by a great many little cords of vanity, as effectually as by the cable of some great sin. It makes us think of the description of Gulliver, when the Lilliputians, while he was sleeping, had tied each of the hairs of his head to the innumerable pins that they had fastened in the earth, so that he could not stir, and the pigmies could do with him what they pleased, though he was a giant and they were mites. So it is with many little anxieties, cares, vanities, wishes, plans, engagements, affections, of this world. A Christian's heart may be so confined with them, if he has wandered from God, that he cannot rise, but shall have to cry out with bitterness, My soul cleaveth unto the dust! He must take care of little wanderings.

And a man whose heart has thus wandered from the Lord and become insensible, will not get back to him by a return to mere external duties. Going to church, merely, will not cure him; partaking of the communion will not cure him; good sermons will not cure him. He must begin to return, where he began to wander, in his heart; that must be humbled and broken before God. He must work upon that, hammer upon that, try the fire of the Word upon that. The preparatory work of a man upon his heart must sometimes be like that upon his garden, when it has long been untilled; it is all grown over with weeds; you can neither water it nor sow good seed in it till the weeds be pulled up. Sowing the word, and letting the weeds grow at the same time, will only choke the first, and make the last ranker. A man must weed his heart thoroughly, and when it has become hardened through the deceitfulness of sin, it is so compact with stiff thistles and thorns, that it is not a soft and delicate hand that can pull them up; the spade and the mattock must be used, and perhaps God himself will have to add the plough of severe affliction.