ast blessings of
Christians; and closing the eyes of those who had nothing to trust to
but the mercy of a God who will be far more merciful to us than we are
to one another; and I say decidedly that the Christian's death is the
glorious one, as is his life. You can never find a good man who is not
a worker; he is no laggard in the race of life. Three, two, or one
score years of life have been to him a season of labour in his
appointed sphere; and as the work of the hands earns for us sweet rest
by night, so does the heart's labour of a lifetime make the repose of
heaven acceptable. This is my experience; and I remember one death, of
a man whom I grew to love in a few short weeks, the thought of which
stirs my heart now, and has sustained me in seasons of great danger;
for before that time, if I had never feared death, I had not learnt to
meet him with a brave, smiling face, and this he taught me.

I must not tell you his name, for his friends live yet, and have been
kind to me in many ways. One of them we shall meet on Crimean soil. He
was a young surgeon, and as busy, light-hearted, and joyous as a good
man should be; and when he fell ill they brought him to my house,
where I nursed him, and grew fond of him--almost as fond as the poor
lady his mother in England far away. For some time we thought him
safe, but at last the most terrible symptoms of the cruel disease
showed themselves, and he knew that he must die. His thoughts were
never for himself, but for those he had to leave behind; all his pity
was for them. It was trying to see his poor hands tremblingly penning
the last few words of leave-taking--trying to see how piteously the
poor worn heart longed to see once more the old familiar faces of the
loved ones in unconscious happiness at home; and yet I had to support
him while this sad task was effected, and to give him all the help I
could. I think he had some fondness for me, or, perhaps, his kind
heart feigned a feeling that he saw would give me joy; for I used to
call him "My son--my dear child," and to weep over him in a very weak
and silly manner perhaps.

He sent for an old friend, Captain S----; and when he came, I had to
listen to the dictation of his simple will--his dog to one friend, his
ring to another, his books to a third, his love and kind wishes to
all; and that over, my poor son prepared himself to die--a child in
all save a man's calm courage. He beckoned me to raise him in the bed,
and, as I