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conversation, saying, 'But perhaps there is still some hope of my life, and I am willing to do anything that may be considered desirable.'

"When her father had left us, it seemed as if she could hardly contain her joy; her countenance was expressive of what no words can set forth, when she said, 'Yes, Christine; did you hear him? He has said it himself; he hopes, he believes in God. Now I shall die happy.' And with a kind of ecstasy, unusual to her, she raised her beaming eyes towards Heaven, and exclaimed in a melodious voice, 'Yes, I see Heaven! I see God, I see Christ at His right hand, and I think I see my place!' As she said this, her features were lighted up with more than a smile, and it seemed as if she were about to enter those regions of which she had so clear a view; but times of conflict were again her portion, chiefly occasioned by the thought of leaving her beloved father. Once, when in great suffering, she said, 'It sometimes happens that people who are ill are not grateful for what is done for them; their sufferings make them selfish; I hope I shall not be like that. I feel very grateful for all that is done for me, and considering I have been ill so long, I am pretty cheerful; but this comes from God, it is not of myself.'

"In the night, when in pain, she was often heard praying in short petitions, 'My God, give me a little ease; only a little, but Thy will be done!' 'Give me patience.' 'Look on me, Lord.' Once she said to me, 'Why does God afflict me so long? If it is in order to loosen me from the world, I can tell you that this was done long ago.' She was told that the end of our existence was to glorify God, and that we must leave to Him to choose the manner in which we could best do so, adding that the patience which had been given her had already proved instructive, and no doubt would be blest to others.

"A few days after she said calmly, 'Well, if my illness, my sufferings, and even my death, serve to the glory of God, I shall not be sorry for what I have had to bear. How glad

I should be if my father, my Uncle A., and my Uncle and Aunt C., understood from whence proceeds the calmness and resignation with which I am favoured, that they might be brought by me to consider these things; for if I am patient and resigned, it is certainly of God, and not of myself.'

"On waking one morning, a short time before she died, she said, 'I dreamt last night that my Aunt N. had come to see me, and that she said, "Adèle, will you go with me to the play?" and that I had answered, "Do you not know that I am no longer of this world ?" I do not know why I answered so, but I seemed no longer to be in this world, and I was so happy.' A few days previous to her death, her Aunt C. came to stay with her. After intimating that she felt she should not recover, and her willingness to depart, Adèle expressed her affection to her aunt in the tenderest manner, adding, 'I love you all better than I ever loved you before.' Indeed, her love seemed to increase as she drew near to those regions where all is love. The night before the last which she passed amongst us was a very trying one, both as to bodily suffering and mental anguish; she deeply felt the pang of the approaching separation from all those who were dear to her. She asked me to call first her aunt, then her father. She took leave of him in the most affectionate manner, expressing her desire that he might be enabled to bear the impending trial. Throughout this touching scene we were all in tears; she alone was calm, though it was evident, from some of her expressions, she had to contend with very strong feelings of natural affection, and this rendered her submission to the Divine will still more striking. As if fearing that the emotion which she could not entirely conceal should lead us to think that her faith was shaken at the near approach of dissolution, she said, with a firm voice, 'There are bright and beautiful promises, my father, and I believe in them; but I feel the pain of leaving so good a father.' She then called her aunt to her, and taking her hand, she put it into

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her father's, saying, 'Aunt, here is my father! I recommend him to you; take care of him, do all you can for him; I had hoped to do it myself.' A deep silence reigned in the room; her poor father, though deeply affected, scarcely dared to give utterance to his sorrow. The dear child noticed it, and looking up at him with a smiling countenance, said, 'Now, my dear father, once more smile upon me. Although I am in much pain, I can still smile upon you.' Then, turning to me, 'And what can I say to you? Nothing but "Thank you." Although evidently gradually sinking, there was no appearance about her of immediate dissolution; and though only the day before her death, she spent about two hours in her loved little garden. She seemed to take leave of her pretty flowers, making a remark upon each of them as they were brought to her to examine. They were mostly in pots, and were many of them just in perfection. There was something touching in the remarkable taste she had for flowers, which seemed to increase as she came nearer to the confines of time. Never can I forget her heavenly appearance that afternoon, as we sat round her couch, surrounded by the most luxurious flowers, chiefly pinks and carnations, which scented the air, and which, a few hours after, served to adorn her sweet and peaceful remains, after the spirit had fled to the paradise of unfading flowers above. Her last night on earth was a restless one; she did not express much, but not one murmur escaped her. When asked if she was in pain, she would say, 'Yes, in much pain all over, and not one part is free; but I can bear it.' Her father left us in the morning, as there seemed no particular indication of approaching death, and he seemed scarcely able to bear witnessing, for long together, the gradual decline of his dying child. She expressed unusual anxiety to be dressed and to be taken downstairs. After much fatigue in dressing, I carried her down to her accustomed place on the sofa, and she even spoke of being taken out in the garden as soon as she had had a little rest. Seeing I was almost exhausted with the effort of carrying her, she

drew me to her, and very expressively said, 'I thank you; I thank you a thousand times. May God reward you!' She then asked me to rest awhile at her feet, and she soon went off into a doze, from which she roused in about an hour, and called me to her in a very agitated manner, her countenance expressing terror and dismay, saying in a hurried tone, 'Christine, what is the matter with me? I have a pain in my chest. I am choking; I am dying! Do you not see that I am dying, and cannot you do anything for me? Do send an express to N- ; send for a doctor. Give me something to take !'

"Something was brought to her. She eagerly tried to take it, but said, with increased emotion, 'Oh, I cannot swallow!'

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"Almost instantaneously this feeling of terror seemed to be removed; the expression of her countenance changed, her beautiful eyes were raised towards Heaven, and joining her hands before her, and raising them up, she uttered this short but comprehensive prayer: 'My God, pardon all my sin; Christ, my Saviour, I have faith. I have confidence in Thee, and I am Thine for ever!' From that moment a heavenly calm seemed to cover her mind; the bitterness of death was past. The first thing she said after this was to request that no one might be sent to Nless. Her Uncle A. arrived at this juncture. She received him with evident marks of satisfaction, though she could not say much; but when sufficiently recovered to speak, she repeated, with calmness and decision, the directions she had at other times given me, respecting the disposal of her pocket-money and of the articles she most valued. Having nothing to give to her uncle, she turned towards him, and, with a smile, said, 'And to you, my uncle, my love. Now I am dying, pray.' After a short prayer, she added, 'I die happy; let my father know I die happy.' Her aunt asked her if she died with faith in that Saviour who came into the world to die for us. She emphatically replied, 'Oh yes, aunt; nothing else.' She moved her hands towards us, and

said, 'Farewell, all.' Seeing that the servant, who had lived some time with us, was not in the room, she said, 'Where is Jeannette ?' The servant was called, and when she came into the room, the dying child held out her hand to her, saying, 'Jeannette, I thank you.' Jeannette, who was much attached to her, would have kissed her hands, and given way to the expression of sorrow, but Adèle would not allow anything to move her. She therefore waved her hands towards her, and softly setting her aside, said, 'It is enough.'

"This heavenly calmness had acted so powerfully on all around, that a solemn stillness prevailed. I was standing by her, supporting her on my right arm, while my head supported hers; she felt my tears falling on her cheek, which was already made cold by the hand of death, and looking towards me with the expression of gentle reproof, she said, 'Do you weep? Oh do not weep for me.' There still seemed so much life about her that I hoped she might live to see her father, whom we were expecting in less than an hour, and I expressed the wish that some further means might be tried to revive her; but she gently said, 'Oh, no; it is useless. Now, Christine, you may close my eyes.' I had already put my hand upon her eyes, when she moved, as though she had omitted something she wished to do; and taking off her finger the small ring before mentioned, she tried to put it on mine, saying, 'It is for you.'

"She then resumed her former position, and, without the least alteration in her features, with a sweet smile, which lasted after death, her purified spirit took its flight to Heaven."

She was in the seventeenth year of her age.

"Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled,
Home! home! thy peace is won, thy heart is filled.
Thou art gone home!"


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