And whate'er thou needs't below,

He thou trustest will bestow.

"In these lines I was forcibly reminded, that my duty as a Christian was with the present, and not the future. 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' When God sees fit really to send affliction upon his children, he will send strength sufficient for the trial. My faith was strengthened in the Lord. In a review of my duty to him, I found the comfort I had before sought in vain. These lines became my constant companion, faithfully pointing to a never-failing support. I was now enabled to turn my attention to the next most important duty, but here mercy and goodness again directed me, or I should have been discouraged in the undertaking, so dark did-every thing appear.

"It became necessary to bring about an early departure from Bedford, without referring to the cause; this was difficult, because my dear husband had determined, only a few days before, to remain three weeks longer.

"Here appeared to be difficulties quite insurmountable, but the hearer and answerer of prayer made the way easy for his poor, disconsolate child. A gentleman remarked, in the course of the evening, that the town was considered unhealthy, and many had intended to leave; this was all that I could desire. An early day was fixed for our departure. The physician was amazed to find, that in twenty-four hours after his last visit, all appearances of fever had very much subsided, and recommended a ride to the Springs, judging that distance to be the extent that his patient could bear; but on his return in the evening, he exhibited much more astonishment to find that he had ridden ten miles, made a visit, and did not lie down immediately on returning. After this he expressed a desire to me that we would remain a few weeks longer, remarking that he would like to look into his case further. However, it was too late; the recent alarm had been so great, that I did not feel willing to remain so far from home, and made no proposal to remain longer; we therefore left there

on Tuesday, the third week in August. It being rather early to return to the city, your dear brother determined to take a circuitous route, and visit whatever was worth seeing on the journey.

"The restlessness of disease, which attaches sickly association to every familiar object, determined him to return to Philadelphia by the way of Baltimore. The idea of passing through a land of strangers again, in his feeble state, was a distressing circumstance to me. In our journey to Bedford, by the way of Lancaster and Harrisburg, almost every one seemed to exhibit more or less sympathy and interest, and whenever his name was discovered, this interest was evidently increased, so that I felt we should have been in a measure among friends, could we have returned the same way. However, I acquiesced with reluctance, and we reached Hagarstown without fatigue on Wednesday. From here my dear husband had intended to visit Harper's Ferry, but he was seized with a singular sensation in the stomach, attended with pain in swallowing, which seemed to arise from obstruction. This circumstance induced him to hasten to Baltimore, in order to be able to leave there on Monday for Philadelphia, unless he felt better. We arrived at Fredericktown on Friday, and took passage in the rail-road car on Saturday, to facilitate our arrival at Baltimore. It proved a very fatiguing ride; the car was a wretched one, and being too near the engine, and on the wrong side of the car, he was annoyed with the gas, dust, steam and sun. We arrived in Baltimore about three o'clock; he was very much overcome with fatigue, but a refreshing night's rest restored him in a great measure, and the following day, a friend who had not seen him since the spring, thought him better than at that time. I felt all my hopes return again, and believed that he would reap the benefit of the journey after he returned home, and be spared many years to us yet. He felt encouraged himself, and gave up his intention of returning home on Monday, and accepted the kind invitation of his friend Mr. Boyle to pass a few days at his house.

"He joined us on Sunday at each meal, sat at the head of the dinner-table, and after dinner remained an hour conversing with

a friend. Again, after tea, Dr. Wyatt called, and he did not retire for the night till near nine o'clock, and rested well. The following morning he arose to breakfast, but had no appetite, complained of excessive debility and an indescribable sensation at the stomach. I know of no probable cause for this sudden change, unless it was the great change in the weather which took place in the night, for from having been oppressively warm, it became so cold as to require a change of clothing. I became alarmed, and sent for the physician, Doctor Buckler, of Baltimore, who had visited him on Sunday, the day before. I observed him writing several times, and when Dr. B. came, he read the paper, which was merely memoranda of what he wished to say, perhaps written lest he should forget, under a sense of extreme exhaustion. He commenced by saying, 'Doctor, I shall not live to get home, I feel so strangely.' The physician felt his pulse, smiled at him, and said that he saw no material change, and no reason for such an opinion, gave him some tonic, and promised to see him at Mr. Boyle's in the afternoon. He rode to Mr. Boyle's in time for dinner, and spoke of taking a ride in the afternoon, to call on Mrs. H, from Philadelphia, a member of his congregation, then on a visit to a friend a few miles from Baltimore. After dinner he retired to his chamber to take some rest, after which he found himself too feeble to make any further effort that day.

"A veil, impenetrable as yet, mercifully hung between me and the future. I saw not distinctly the storm that was about to burst upon me. I trembled and hoped alternately, while I remembered that my duty was with the present. I tried to believe that we should be at home on Saturday, which opinion the physician encouraged.

"This was all right, and ordered by a Father's hand who cared for the comfort of his faithful servant; but for this strange blindness and for this unwarrantable hope, I should have sunk, and the hands of a stranger must have ministered to his wants. I shall never cease to thank the Lord for these his special mercies to the departing saint.

"On Wednesday he complained of nausea; this was a new symptom, and one that he had all his life particularly dreaded. When I discovered this, I unconsciously lost my self-possession, and as his head rested on my shoulder, he discovered it, and merely remarked, My love, this will not do; you know my nervous temperament; I must have another nurse if you cannot control your feelings.'

"When the physician came again, he comforted me with the hope that he was no worse; he changed his medicines, and things wore a brighter aspect until Friday just before day. I had been, while he seemed to be in a sweet sleep, packing a box of medicines, in order that some preparation might be made at every leisure hour for our departure, still hoping that on Saturday or Sunday we should be able to leave, when I offered him some nourishment, and found he could not speak above a whisper. On inquiring the cause, he answered with perfect composure, 'I have lost my voice, my love.' My alarm was almost past control. I sent instantly for the doctor. When he came in, I was at a distant part of the room, preparing some medicine. The low sound I caught was the following remark, uttered with the calmness and sweetness of an angel, 'Oh! doctor, I had hoped to have seen my home once more; I have a precious child there whom I have not seen for six weeks. Oh! you do not know how dear she is to me.' I flew to the bed, and said, in my usual cheerful manner, though terrified lest all hope was gone, 'Oh, do not speak so despondingly; we expect to leave here on Saturday.' I cast my eyes on the physician for his assent to this, but I saw no look of encouragement. I dared not trust my voice. I traced with a pencil what my tongue could not utter. An answer was instantly returned in the same manner, but I dared not look at it. I left the room lest my feelings should be betrayed. I read it; a stone sunk into my heart-'Yes, if you wish your child to come, lose no time.' Here was the long-dreaded moment, the death-blow to all my fondly cherished hopes; and the admonition, lose no time, was the only thing that saved my reason. It presented an object. My family could see our idol if I lost no Ff

VOL. I.

time, though my feet seemed nailed to the spot, and no outward object discernible from the dreadful anguish within. I at length made my way to my son, and with subdued tone of voice, I told him my intention to send for the family, requested him to go to bed, get what sleep he could, it being then four o'clock, and go in the steamboat at five to Philadelphia. I gave him other necessary instructions, but carefully concealed the extent of our sorrows, lest he should be unable to go, or my sister and daughter disabled from coming.

"I returned to the chamber of death; the effort I had made seemed to have destroyed all power of sensation. I moved about like an automaton, and scarcely knew any thing distinctly, until the physician came again. He found the remedies he made use of a few hours before had produced a favourable change. I was again revived; hope came to my relief, and I was enabled assiduously to devote myself to his every comfort, as heretofore.

"Doctor B., the physician, expressed a desire that he should take as much nourishment as possible; but no entreaties would prevail with him to receive any thing but ice; being perfectly aware that his end was near, he seemed unwilling to disturb the tranquil state in which he desired to depart; he had no wish to add an hour to life, and therefore would not receive nourishment at the risk of producing nausea, connected with positive pain in swallowing. To be allowed perfect quiet was all he desired, while patiently awaiting the coming of his Master. When we had ceased all importunity, he looked so perfectly tranquil that you might almost have imagined him lying in his usual manner on his own sofa, resting from the fatigue of one of his many walks from his dear St. Andrew's. When Dr. Henshaw had reminded him, some time before, that if he had any thing to communicate he had better improve the present time, he seemed to have nothing on his mind; his worldly cares sat so lightly upon him, that they were like an upper garment, easily thrown off when found to impede his progress heavenward. But at this time, when none were present but myself, and the stillness might almost have been