ucceeded, but at the price of his own life, for he only came home to
linger a while and then to die. His indomitable will-power kept him up
until he saw the last boat safely moored in our quiet harbour, and
witnessed the loving greetings between his stalwart crews and their
happy families. He joined with us all in the blessed thanksgiving
service in our overflowing sanctuary, where with glad hearts we sang
together:

"And are we yet alive,
And see each other's face?
Glory and praise to Jesus give
For His redeeming grace:
Preserved by power Divine
To full salvation here,
Again in Jesu's praise we join,
And in His sight appear."

Then he began to droop and wither, and in spite of all that we, or the
kind Hudson's Bay officials, who were very much attached to him, could
do for him, he seemed almost visibly to slip away from us.

By-and-by the end drew near. It was a beautiful day, and as he had some
difficulty in breathing, at his own request a wigwam was prepared, and
he was well wrapped up and gently lifted out of his house and placed
upon a bed of balsam boughs covered with robes. He seemed grateful for
the change, and appeared a little easier for a time. We talked of
Jesus, and heaven, and "the abundant entrance," and "the exceeding great
and precious promises." Then he dropped off in a quiet slumber. Soon
after, he awoke with a consciousness that the time of his departure had
come, and laid himself out to die. Bending over him, I said, "Samuel,
this is death that has come for you! Tell me how it is with you." His
hearing had partly left him, and so he did not understand me. Speaking
more loudly I said, "Samuel, my brother, you are in the Valley of the
Shadow of Death; how is it with you?"

His eye brightened, and his look told me he had understood my question.
He lifted up his thin, emaciated arm, and, seeming to clasp hold of
something, he said, "Missionary, I am holding on to God; He is my all of
joy and hope and happiness." Then the arm fell nerveless, and my
triumphant Indian brother was in the Better Land.

Perhaps I cannot find a better place than here to refer to Samuel's
widow and children, and an interview I had with them.

They moved away, shortly after his death, from his house in the Mission
village, and took up their abode with several other families up the
river beyond the Fort, several miles from the village. We had visited
them and substantially aided them up to t