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trying to get out of bed. At last she was more quiet. I called her father, who was in the next room-bade him come as soon as possible. I thought our dear child was dying. When he came she seemed a little more composed. He spoke to her. She said, "Father, I want you to read to me; will you?" He said, "Yes, dear child, I will; is there any part in particular you wish for me to read ?" 66 Where, father, it will tell me that God will pardon and forgive me my sins." I thought my poor child so simple, I did not know where we could find a chapter that she might be able to understand. So stupid was I, that I did not think the Lord could open the eyes of her understanding and bless the words to her. knew we had no minister near, so I thought to send to Mr. George Hayward. I had heard him expound several chapters, and had enjoyed it very much. I soon lost all those thoughts. God alone must do the work, not man. Of course her father and myself knew that, but we wanted it before the Lord saw fit. Our trouble was so great, to see our dear child in such dreadful agony of soul, we might have known that the Lord would not leave her. He had brought her to cry for mercy, and He would not leave her in trouble to sink. Her father read part of John x., where it speaks of the Good Shepherd. She leant up, poor child, in bed, with such earnestness, to hear; it seemed comforting to her. I said, "Dear child, would you like father to read Psalm li., it is very beautiful and suitable to you; where David is in great distress about his sins?" "Yes, do read it, father, will you, please? Let David's prayer be mine, that God may bless me, like him."

I left her with her father, as she had not taken anything for some time. When I brought

her the refreshment, to my great surprise she was reading the end of Psalm li. herself. When she had finished reading, I said, "Take this, dear, it will do you good and strengthen you." But she refused. 66 No, mother, no, I cannot take it." I begged of her again and again. She said, “I cannot until the Lord has answered my prayers and forgiven me my sins." She then asked her father to pray for her. He said, "Yes, dear, I will try; but let me, dear child, hear you first pray for yourself." Yes, dear father, I will ask God to grant me my petition." She closed her hands, and, with uplifted eyes to heaven, while her dear voice trembled, and her poor shaking frame quite shook the bed-I never saw a countenance more beautiful and angelic than my beloved child's at this time-with all the firmness and vigour her strength would allow, she poured out her prayer to God that He would make Himself known to her, that He would forgive her her manifold sins and transgressions, and, like the thief on the cross, receive her in that paradise above, and be for ever with Him in glory. So simple and childlike, so full of meaning and beautiful, was her prayer that God would take her to Himself to be for ever singing praises to God and the Lamb. She kept on for some time in that way, and at last she said, "I do not know what to say, I cannot praise God enough; do help me, father and mother, will you? Do bless and praise God for me." She was in that way for three hours; if the room had been full of people she would not have been daunted, so happy, so heavenly, did that dear child feel. I do believe she had received full pardon of her sins, when about three hours before she seemed in the torments of hell. It says in one of Hart's hymns, "I looked for hell,

He brought me heaven." So it was with my dear child.

Her father being called away, I was again by myself with her. She was very peaceful for some little time, then expressed a wish for me to read to her of God's great goodness to poor unworthy sinners, such as she felt herself to be. I took up Bogatzky's "Golden Treasury.' There are many beautiful and precious promises. I read several, which she appeared really to enjoy. It was like food to her poor hungry soul. She would keep making remarks, and saying, "How beautiful that is! Is not God good? I did not know there were such precious things in the Bible when I used to read to you and father on Sunday evenings and at other times. I do not ever remember reading anything so sweet. I did not understand it at all. It seemed so dull to me then; now I can understand every word, and feel it too. It is so delightful to hear you read to me now."

Indeed, I was like my dear child; I quite enjoyed it. It was food to my soul. She said, "Dear mother, if I am spared how I shall value the Bible and that little book. I would not put it out of sight again because you should not read it. I did not then know its value. When the ministers used to be speaking of God's dealing with poor, lost, hell-deserving sinners, I could not think what they meant. I can understand it all now, dear mother, and feel too what it means. How good and kind God is to bear with such wicked sinners." Reading the portion of Scripture from Bogatzky, the 24th of May-it was from Psalm xxiii.-after reading the explanation, she said, "Do read that again, will you mother? That is just what I want the

Lord to do for me, and be with me. I cannot think how it was I did not understand it before. It all seems new to me." The one that should be read on the 20th of May, from the same book, she remarked with much earnestness. Also the verse at the end, where it speaks of Zion's sacred chamber, "where my soul first drew the vital air." She said, "Dear mother, where is Zion's sacred chamber?" I said, "It is here, dear, where God first showed you what a wretched sinner you were, and where I hope He has made Himself known to you as a merciful Saviour, full of pardon and forgiveness to the vilest of sinners." "Oh, yes-yes; I see now. I thought I should like to know, but God has in mercy brought me here." She appeared full of heavenly comfort and joy, resting on her Saviour. Many more things she said to the same purpose, which I cannot recollect, but all to the praise and glory of her God, to whom I believe she could say, "My Father and my God."

I was then called away. Her father took my place by her side. She spoke many things to him. She said she was going to heaven to be with Jesus, for God had called her. He asked her if she would like to stay with her friends a little longer. She said, “Well, dear father, if it were God's will; but He has called me, and I must go. I hope you will all come to meet me! How happy we shall be! I should like to send you word when I get there." She spoke of the angels in glory all clothed in white, harping and singing praises to God and the Lamb. When speaking so much of heaven, her father said, "Have you been there, dear child ?" "I have been part of the way, father, and am going to live with God. You will all come, won't you?" He said, "I

hope, dear child, we shall." She told her father she had been very proud, also fond of looking in the glass, and pride was a great sin in the sight of God. It was wonderful to see a child of her age brought through mercy to see herself such an ugly black monster in the sight of a holy God. She told her father if she should be spared she thought she never could look in the glass again, nor could she tell an untruth for all the world. She said she had no wish to live, if she should get better, but to the glory of her God, and serve Him alone. I laid her dear head on the pillow; she still seemed happy in the Lord, and, I believe, waiting for His coming, she appeared as though she could not bless and praise God enough for all His goodness to her. All the rest of the day she was quite lost, I think from over-exertion. She said but little; her senses were apparently gone; the fever was raging violently; she appeared not to know anybody nor anythingwhich was very distressing to us. I stood by her side and wiped the perspiration which was dropping from her in great drops. We bathed her poor head with vinegar; applied ice to her forehead. It was of no avail; she could take nothing, and I believe knew nothing until about seven o'clock on Saturday evening, 23rd, when she revived and appeared quite sensible for a short time. Her poor father, for the first time since she had been taken ill, really thought she would recover. It only lasted a short time. The only thing she said or appeared to know while her father and myself were sitting up with her was, I asked if Jesus were still precious to her. As well as she could make us understand she said, "yes." Poor child! she lay in that distressing way until ten minutes to four o'clock on Sunday morning, 24th May, when she closed her eyes in