her. "How long," said she, "will it
probably continue?"

I told her that heaven was a free gift at the last as well as at first;
that we could not pass within the gate at will, but must wait God's
time; that there were sufferings yet necessary to her complete
preparation for heaven, of which she would see the use hereafter, but
not now. This made her wholly quiet; and after that she rode at anchor
many hours, hard by the inner lighthouse, waiting for the Pilot.

The last words which she uttered to me, an hour before she died, were,
"I am going to get my crown." I wondered at her in my thoughts, (O, help
my unbelief!) to hear a dying sinner so confident. I said to myself, "O
woman, great is thy faith." She knew that her crown was a free gift,
purchased at infinite expense; a crown, instead of deserved chains,
under darkness. All unmerited, and more than forfeited, yet she spoke of
her crown, because she believed with a simple faith, taking Christ at
his word, and being willing to receive rewards and honors from him
without projecting her own sense of unworthiness to stay the
overflowings of infinite love and grace towards her. So that, in her own
esteem as undeserving as the chief of sinners, thinking as little as
possible of her own righteousness, and being among the last to claim any
thing of God, she could say with one who would not admit that any
sinner was chief above him, "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."

Between two and three o'clock on Monday afternoon, January 19, she was
quietly receiving some food from the nurse, when suddenly she said, "The
room seems dark." She then made a surprising effort, such as she had
been incapable of for some time, and reached forward from her pillow,
saying, "Who is that at the door?" The nurse was with her alone, and at
her side, the family being at the table. Coming to her room, we found
that she was apparently sinking into a deep sleep, as though it were
only a sleep, profound and quiet.

I asked her if she knew me.

She made no answer.

I said, "You know Jesus." A smile played about her mouth. We rejoiced,
and wept for joy.

I then said, "If you know father, press my hand." She gave me no
sign--that smile being her last intelligent act.--And so she passed
within the veil.

I was able to relate all this from