r streaming eyes to
heaven, exclaimed, "It is the Lord; let him do what he will. Be still, O
my soul, and know that he is God."

"What, madam," said I, "can be the matter?" She answered not, but, with
inexpressible anguish depicted in her countenance, pointed to the paper.
I took it up, and soon found the fatal paragraph. I shall not attempt to
paint our heartfelt grief and lamentation upon this occasion; for we had
no doubt of Eliza's being the person described, as a stranger, who died,
at Danvers, last July. Her delivery of a child, her dejected state of
mind, the marks upon her linen, indeed every circumstance in the
advertisement, convinced us, beyond dispute, that it could be no other.
Mrs. Wharton retired immediately to her chamber, where she continued
overwhelmed with sorrow that night and the following day. Such in fact
has been her habitual frame ever since; though the endeavors of her
friends, who have sought to console her, have rendered her somewhat more
conversable. My testimony of Eliza's penitence before her departure is a
source of comfort to this disconsolate parent. She fondly cherished the
idea that, having expiated her offence by sincere repentance and
amendment, her deluded child finally made a happy exchange of worlds.
But the desperate resolution, which she formed and executed, of becoming
a fugitive, of deserting her mother's house and protection, and of
wandering and dying among strangers, is a most distressing reflection
to her friends; especially to her mother, in whose breast so many
painful ideas arise, that she finds it extremely difficult to compose
herself to that resignation which she evidently strives to exemplify.

Eliza's brother has been to visit her last retreat, and to learn the
particulars of her melancholy exit. He relates that she was well
accommodated, and had every attention and assistance which her situation
required. The people where she resided appear to have a lively sense of
her merit and misfortunes. They testify her modest deportment, her
fortitude under the sufferings to which she was called, and the serenity
and composure with which she bade a last adieu to the world. Mr. Wharton
has brought back several scraps of her writing, containing miscellaneous
reflections on her situation, the death of her babe, and the absence of
her friends. Some of these were written before, some after, her
confinement. These valuable testimonies of the affecting sense and calm
expectation