MEMOIR OF MARY ANN TYMAN. MARY ANN TYMAN was born at Tunbridge Road, Maidstone, December 1, 1853; she died at the Asylum Farm, May 24, 1868, aged fourteen years and six months. She was naturally a sweettempered, cheerful girl, always had a kind word or a smile for any of her companions, and mostly beloved by all that knew her. Never was a parent blessed with a more affectionate child; indeed, when I look back to her infancy, there always seemed to be something unusually sweet in her manner.

On the 12th of May, 1868, she came from school very unwell with sick headache; I gave her some medicine, and hoped to find her better in the morning. The sickness still continued for three days. Feeling alarmed, we sent for medical aid. The doctor said there was nothing to fear at present; he hoped in a few days to bring her round again. He attended her every day, and saw no symptoms of danger until the Wednesday following, which was on the 20th. From the time she was taken she seemed deep in thought, which was very unnatural for her, for she was seldom quiet from singing some little children's hymns, that the house, even now, seems to mourn the loss of her voice. At this time her death had not once entered my mind; she had never had a day's illness before, only such small ailments as children are subject to. On Monday evening, the 18th, as I was getting her to bed, she was much depressed, and expressed a wish that I would sleep with her that night. I said, "Dear child, do not be so distressed. If that will do you any good I am sure I will stay with you. Do dry your tears, and make yourself comfortable. I will not leave you tonight."

She was very delirious at times; we got no rest until quite morning, when she seemed more tranquil. She continued much the same all the next day; at night she was very restless, and appeared much worse. In the morning, which was Wednesday, the 20th, with great difficulty I got her down-stairs, as the doctor wished her not to be kept in bed as long as she was able to get up. When the doctor came he found her decidedly worse, ordered her to bed, and pronounced her to have typhus fever. Of course from that time I never left her by herself. I sat up with her all that night. She got no sleep.

About two o'clock in the morning she thought she would like a little tea. I made her some, which she seemed to enjoy. When I laid her down she looked at me with such a heart-rending look, and sighed: "Ah, dear mother, sleep has left me. When I used to lie in my little bed I could sleep from night until morn, so happy; never wake until you called me; thought I had nothing to trouble me: but now sleep is gone from me." I said, "Well, dear, you are now in pain, and when you get better, if please God, you will then sleep as usual." She looked at me so pitifully, and said, "Ah, dear mother, you don't know. I could sleep now if I had not done what I have." She seemed quite overcome, and took no more notice. I sat down by the bedside, and with sorrow wept over her, wondering what my poor child could have done to cause such grief. I watched her a long time, and hoped she would recover herself, so that I might talk to her, and know what her trouble was. She seemed lost and wandering. I knelt by her bedside and poured out my unworthy prayers to the Lord, who alone can give peace to the troubled heart, that He would, if it was

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His will, remove the sickness, that He would comfort her in her distress, give her patience and strength to bear whatever he might be pleased to afflict her with, &c., when these words came with such power, indeed I almost thought I heard them spoken, "She shall live." I rose from my knees, and blessed the Lord, for I felt quite sure my dear child would be spared to us. I opened the Bible to find the words. They are in Luke viii. 50. They seemed so blessed to me. morning her father came in to see her. thought her much worse, and said to me, “We shall not save her." I said, “Oh, yes, she will get better." He asked what made me so sure she would be spared. "I think her much worse. I wish I could feel our poor child would be spared to us.” He asked what sort of a night she had. I told him, "Very much depressed," but could not say much. I did not tell him the few words she had said to me, fearing it would add to his grief, as he had his business to attend to. But all the next day, which was Thursday, the 21st., these words were so blessed to me, I could not get them from my mind. As I was doing what was necessary I kept repeating them: "This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified thereby."* I still felt thankful to God, for I felt quite sure my dear child would be spared.

On Thursday night (21st) her father and aunt sat with her until two o'clock, as I went to lie down a few hours. She was very delirious, but said nothing to them particularly. I relieved them, and was again by myself with her. I went to give her some refreshment. After she had taken

*This is quite proof that faith needs a firmer foundation than pressions from texts.-ED.

it, she said, “Oh, mother, I am in such agony!" "Are you, dear?" I said, "where are you in most pain? "Oh, dear mother, I am in agony about my sins." I asked, "How long, my dear child, have felt you your sins a burden to you?" "Ever since I have been ill. I am a great sinner in the sight of God. I wish I had lived to God, and served Him all my life, instead of that other wretch." I said, "What wretch, dear ?" She said, I have served the devil, mother, and neglected my God. What shall I do? Oh, dear mother, what-what shall I do? Do pray for me, that God will hear and answer my petitions! I told her that God had promised to forgive the vilest of sinners if we earnestly seek his aid, and felt our need of Him. “Ah, dear mother, I have poured out my prayers to God again and again; He will not hear me; I am such a great sinner. Oh, that I had lived to God more!" I referred her to the thief on the cross, that there was forgiveness at the eleventh hour to those that cried for mercy, and felt their need of a Saviour. “Oh, yes, dear mother; but can God pardon me, such a great sinner? Oh, that He would receive me, like the thief on the cross, into that paradise above." She seemed quite overwhelmed with grief and the burden of her sins. I rested her dear head on the pillow. What a wretch I felt myself to be. I thought of the text where it says, 66 God has chosen the simple of this world to confound the wise." Pray I could not; I had not a word I could say. To think my poor child should teach such a solemn lesson-what it was feel death in the soul. All that I could say "Lord, have mercy upon us, Lord pardon my dear child if it be Thy will, and receive her into that rest above!" I withdrew from the

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bed, as she seemed a little quiet. I would not disturb her; I thought perhaps she might get a little sleep. So earnest was she about her bad and lost condition, that she never closed her eyes for a week; they appeared entirely fixed open. She roused. I went to her, and lay her poor head round, and tried to close her eyes, and asked her if she had slept. "No, dear mother, how can I sleep? I don't know how I can. God will not pardon my sins. After a little she was rather more quiet, until about a quarter to four o'clock, when all of a sudden she rose up from the_bed with all the terror of hell in her soul. "Dear mother! mother! it is all over. I am going to hell. God will not forgive me. I am such a great sinner, He will not hear nor answer my prayers. I flew to her bedside, and thought she was delirious. She was like one bewildered. I said," Polly, dear, do you know, child, what you are saying?" Oh, yes, dear mother. I must go to hell. God will not answer my petitions, He will not pardon my sins. Do, dear mother, pray for me. Do ask God to be gracious, and forgive me my many sins. What shall I do? oh, what shall I do? Oh, that I had loved and served God and not the devil. I wish I had never gone to balls and parties, when father and you wished us not. If I should be spared, I would never go to another." It was with great difficulty I kept her in bed; she was, dear child, I believe, in the torments of hell in her conscience. She kept begging of me to ask God to forgive her. must go to hell, I am such a wretched sinner, God cannot have mercy on me," she kept on for some time. I shall never forget her distressed look; my heart was nearly broken. I was quite alone with her; I dare not leave her, lest she should be

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