n her, will be
pleased to know that their gifts did not wholly perish, but that they
will constitute an abiding memorial of her friends, as well as of her.

"I know," she continued, "that I am a great sinner; but I also believe
that my sins are washed away by the blood of Christ." The way of
justification by faith was clear to her mind. She knew whom she
believed, and was persuaded that he was able to keep that which she had
committed to him against that day.

In her whispering voice, which disease had for some time so nearly
hushed, she said, "I shall sing in heaven." Her voice had been the charm
of many a pleasant circle. But she added, "I shall no more sing--

'I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger;
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night.'"

And in a moment she added,--

"Of that country to which I am going,
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light."

"Some people," she said, "wish to die in order to get rid of pain. What
a motive! I am afraid that sometimes they get rid of it only to renew
it. There was--" And here she checked herself, saying, "But I will not
mention any name," a feeling of charitableness and tenderness coming
over her, as though she might be thought to have judged a dying person
harshly.

The day before she died, as I was spending the Sabbath forenoon by her,
she breathed out these words:--

"O, how soft that bed must be,
Made in sickness, Lord, by thee!
And that rest, how soft and sweet,
Where Jesus and the sufferer meet!"

In almost the same breath, she said, "O, see that beautiful
yellow,"--directing my attention to a sprig of acacia in a bunch of
flowers; all showing that her religious feelings were not raptures, but
flowed along upon a level with her natural delight at beautiful objects.
To illustrate this, I have mentioned several of the incidents already
related.

She spoke of a young friend, who has much that the world gives its
votaries to enhance her prospects in this life. I said, "Would you
exchange conditions with her?" "Not for ten thousand worlds," was her
energetic reply. "No!" she added; "I fear she has not chosen the good
part."

Sabbath afternoon, the mortal conflict was upon her. The restlessness of
death, the craving for some change of posture, the cold sweats, the
labored respiration, all had the effect merely to make her ask, "How
long do you think I must suffer?" That labored breathing tired her; she
wished that I could regulate it for