of your health that I may find you well. I need not say
how much you are in my thoughts day and night."

His narrative of their intercourse, written after her death, lets in a
flood of light on his home life:--

"During the thirteen years of her union with Dr. Carey, they had
enjoyed the most entire oneness of mind, never having a single
circumstance which either of them wished to conceal from the other. Her
solicitude for her husband's health and comfort was unceasing. They
prayed and conversed together on those things which form the life of
personal religion, without the least reserve; and enjoyed a degree of
conjugal happiness while thus continued to each other, which can only
arise from a union of mind grounded on real religion. On the whole, her
lot in India was altogether a scene of mercy. Here she was found of the
Saviour, gradually ripened for glory, and after having her life
prolonged beyond the expectation of herself and all who knew her, she
was released from this mortal state almost without the consciousness of
pain, and, as we most assuredly believe, had 'an abundant entrance
ministered unto her into the kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus
Christ.'"

When, on 24th June 1809, Carey announced at the dinner table that he
had that morning finished the Bengali translation of the whole Bible,
and he was asked how much more he thought of doing, he answered: "The
work I have allotted to myself, in translating, will take me about
twenty years." But he had kept the bow too long and too tightly bent,
and it threatened to snap. That evening he was seized with bilious
fever, and on the eighteenth day thereafter his life was despaired of.
"The goodness of God is eminently conspicuous in raising up our beloved
brother Carey," wrote Marshman. "God has raised him up again and
restored him to his labours; may he live to accomplish all that is in
his heart," wrote Rowe. He was at once at his desk again, in college
and in his study. "I am this day forty-eight years old," he wrote to
Ryland on the 17th August, and sent him the following letters, every
line of which reveals the inner soul of the writer:--

"CALCUTTA, 16th August 1809.--I did not expect, about a month ago, ever
to write to you again. I was then ill of a severe fever, and for a
week together scarcely any hopes were entertained of my life. One or
two days I was supposed to be dying, but the Lord has graciously
restored me; may it be that I may live more t