ing to see the combined gentleness, playfulness, and tender love with which-though it cost her a severe effort, attended with great suffering - she would yield to our urgent importunity to swallow some little nourishment or liquid. Sometimes when she succeeded in swallowing two or three times successively, I would say, "There, dear mother, that is well done; that is noble, that is good." Then she said, with a sweet smile, "See how George is praising me! He thinks he can succeed in that way." Another time, when we could not persuade her to try again to swallow a spoonful of some liquid after an unsuccessful effort, she remarked, with a gentle, smiling, patient look, on the impossibility of moving a stubborn will, and repeated a stanza from some quaint old ballad, running somewhat as follows:

"You may mistake the way you take

Your wishes to obtain ;

For me to wed against my will,
It is a thing in vain."

Then again, with a great effort, she would conquer the repugnance, which seemed like that of a person afflicted with hydrophobia, and would endeavor to swallow once or twice, but it seemed almost impossible. Yet she did. not complain of pain, and could not describe the anguish we knew it only by the sight of it, and amidst it all her face beamed upon us successively with such a celestial radiance of benignant, compassionate, unutterable love, that I never saw anything which seemed so to realize the expression, "His face was as it had been the face of an angel." It was indeed a truly angelic

smile, such a sense of peace and love conveyed in it as cannot be imagined.

Not

After a night of great suffering, dear mother said to Elizabeth, "I felt in the night as if I had been torn asunder, and thrown about in pieces. My mouth seemed tossed in one place, my nose in another, my eyes in another; but still I felt that God was whole, and I could rest my soul on him, my Rock, and was comforted." even a temptation to distrust or unbelief, or doubt of God's love, seems to have been presented to her mind. The enemy has been as still as a stone while she has passed over Jordan. It has been unspeakably delightful to witness such serene and undisturbed repose, as of a child, on the bosom of the Saviour.

It is remarkable that not even the parting with her children, though she loved us all with such depth and strength of attachment, has been presented to her mind. as an element of trouble or sorrow. The light from heaven has transfigured even that, and, with all her expressions of love, not a pang at the thought of the separation has seemed to be experienced. How entirely the sting of death is taken away, and the darkness of the grave illuminated, by such glory! The painfulness of the blow to us, and the anguish of the separation even for Elizabeth, is so diminished, that our thankfulness to God for such a death, and the sacred, solemn joy of such experience triumph over the desolation and the sorrow. But oh, the loss of such a mother, especially to dear Elizabeth, who has been inseparably with her, through trial and blessings, for more than thirty years!

Dear mother's flowers - the plants that she loved to tend, and watch their growth and budding and blossoming stand in the windows and seem as if they too would speak and tell us of their desolation. You know how she loved them, and some of them you gave her. I never knew a person who had a more unaffected, untaught, native love of flowers, and as strong and fresh in her age as in her youth, undiminished to the last. And the simplest modest flowers were to her the most beautiful. You know how much she thought of the morningglory; how she would call me to admire her flowers, to tell me how beautiful they were, and make me share in her enjoyment. "Come and see my morning

"But you do not look at it:

glory," she would say. I want you to admire it, I want you to see how beautiful it is. I have counted at least fifty blossoms that have bloomed upon it this season." There was a lily that she watched, hoping it would bloom by NewYear's Day; but it did not, and to-day the blossom is withering and falling off.

Dear mother's love of Nature, and her deep enjoyment of its scenes, were as fresh and vivid at seventy-five as ever. Oh, how she enjoyed the sight of this moon upon the water, from her window that overlooked the lovely prospect! and the sunsets, and the bright days of autumn, and all the seasons and their changes! Once during her illness, and in the midst of pain, some allusion having brought to mind the scenes of early morning, she referred to one of Mr. Webster's letters from the country as descriptive of her feelings. And again on some occasion, in reference to her enjoyment of animated Nature.

she said, " Oh, yes, I love the fowls that flutter at the door." And indeed she enjoyed everything that God has made, and never more gratefully than during the period of her abode at Greenport.

And now she is gone! The evening before her death it was a lovely sunset. I went out from the sick-room; and as I gazed upon the beautiful sky, so full of glory, it seemed to me very solemn. There was an awe in the evening light that I never felt before, and I thought, if I should see the sunset without a mother on earth, it would never look to me as it did before. To-day it is fitfully snowing, and all Nature is desolate; but dear mother has passed where

"... everlasting spring abides, And never-fading flowers."

Do you not suppose that these sensibilities of ours, so keenly alive to the impressions of beauty and loveliness from God's works in this lower world, will thrill with ecstasy, similar in kind but far greater in degree, in the vision of God's glorious works in other worlds? How can there be a doubt of it? And how happy are they to whom communion with God was dear and delightful through his works as well as his word here, when the soul beholds his works no longer through the veil of flesh and sense, and when they behold him, no more as through a glass darkly, but face to face! And oh, if ecstatic communion with God is possible here in the midst of the greatest pain, the most intense physical and nervous suffering, what must it be to commune with him there, not only without pain, but freed from all sin, and with angelic sense and vision !

Dear mother loved the poor, and was always doing them good, and always happy in such benevolence. She spoke of this happiness during her illness, and on one occasion remarked: "I have always been thankful that God never suffered me to live where there were no poor. When we first came to Greenport we inquired about the poor, and some told us there were no poor here; but we soon found them out. I never desire to be where there are no poor." Yet there are no poor in heaven; all are rich. And yet there must be employment there too for this spirit of benevolence, this sympathy with suffering and distress. Who can tell? There is a reward for it, most certainly, whenever and wherever exercised, and a happiness in it infinitely great. There is the spirit that would sympathize if ever occasion were presented. May not our Blessed Lord have added: "Secure and improve your precious opportunities of such charity. The poor ye have always with you, but me ye have not always. And inasmuch as ye have given the cup of such blessing to one of these my little ones, ye have done it unto me."

The poor, the friendless, the broken-hearted, and the little children, Jesus always loved as his own. The children rejoicing at his presence in the temple, and shouting with their sweet voices "Hosanna to the Son of David!" were many of them little ones that had experienced his lovingkindness and his blessing. On many of them he had laid his hands, saying at the same time to those looking on around him: "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as a