The hill country of Judea, which furnished a home for the virgin mother of our Lord, is not the only rural region from whence have come women endowed with intelligence and integrity, philanthropy and religion, who by pen and tongue have brightened and blest the hearts and homes of thousands. Nurtured amidst the wilds of nature, instead of the bustle and bewildering attractions of city life, they have grown strong to do battle for the right and to bear testimony to the truth as it is in Jesus. Of this class is the one whose life and labors we are now to consider.

Memphremagog is an enchanting lake, two-thirds of which lie in the Eastern Townships of Canada, in the Province of Quebec, and the upper third in Vermont. Its extreme length from north to south is about thirty miles, its breadth varying from one to three miles. It is semi-circular in form and bestudded with islands; while on its western shore rise mountains of no ordinary attractions, among them Owl's Head, which towers about 2,500 feet above the surface of the lake, affording from its summit a panoramic view of surpassing loveliness. It was at "The Outlet" of this lake there was born, Oct. 27, 1834, Helen Mar, the youngest daughter of Abel B. and Polly JOHNSON; and there she spent—with the exception of the time devoted to attending or teaching school—almost her entire life. Of cities she knew nothing by experience; but as her reading was extensive she knew much of the world by mental surveys. The book of Nature was her delight. Its illustrations of stones and streams, lakes and rivers, mountains and forests, birds and flowers, were ever attractive to her. At an early age she began to exhibit rare poetic talent. Of "a number of short pieces, written between the ages of twelve and fifteen years," the following, entitled "The Forest," has been preserved. It appeared in the Stanstead Journal—a paper to which she afterwards frequently contributed. It was probably the first article she ever had printed.

"Let others seek sweet friendship's voice
When grief the spirit bends,
Let them find solace in the tones
Of their beloved friends;
But oh! when sorrow o'er me broods,
Give me the dark, the dark green woods."

"When pleasure lights the sparkling eye,
And swells with rapture proud,
Let others spend their joyous mirth
Within the giddy crowd;
But when o'er me no clouds are seen,
Give me the forest, dark and green."

"When pure devotion fills the heart,
And breathes a yearning prayer,
Let others wander to the church
And pay their tribute there;
But if o'er me such feelings steal,
In the dark forest let me kneel."

"When death comes o'er the pallid brow
To number with the dead,
Let others choose some lovely grave,
Where tears will oft be shed;
But let me, let me find a tomb
Deep in the forest's darkening gloom."

Her life was not one of thrilling adventure, hairbreadth escapes, and deeds securing worldly applause, but quiet, unobtrusive and useful. Her constitution was naturally weak—her brain too active for her body, and as a consequence much mental and physical suffering was her portion. To her studies—French, Latin and drawing, besides the English branches—she was very devoted. Nothing pleased her better than to be alone with books, pen and pencil, or to wander forth in garden or field. Being of a very bashful and retiring disposition she felt alone even in company. Her diary leaves give evidence of this. Under date of June 19,1852, for example, she writes:

"How lonely I feel to-day! and my rebellious heart will repeat the question, Why was I created thus? I stand alone, and why? I know it is my own self that makes me so; but how can I make myself otherwise? I have tried very, very hard to overcome my—what shall I call it? bashfulness? It seems as though it could not be wholly that. I have seen those the world called bashful, but they were not at all like myself. Oh, no; I am wretched at times on account of this ——. When I see myself all alone—different from those around me—I cannot stay the burning tear though I would gladly repress it. I cannot soothe the anguish that fills my heart, and yet I feel that this is wrong,—that it ought not to be thus. Why should I feel so keenly that I am alone? that I am strange? Earthly scenes will soon be over, and if I am only a Christian I shall never feel alone in heaven. Oh, glorious thought! there will be no strange being there. O God, prepare me for that blissful world and I will no longer complain of my loneliness on earth—no longer sigh that I am not like others."

At this time Miss JOHNSON was not a professed Christian. Her parents had endeavored to bring her up in the fear of the Lord and a belief of the gospel, and to attend the services of the sanctuary. Her life had been one of strict morality. She believed in God but had not taken Christ as her own personal Saviour and confessed him before men as she felt she should. Her conviction of sin however was deep and pungent. On another day in the same month, she says:—

"O Earth, thou art a lovely place, and some of thy inhabitants are as lovely and happy as thyself. See that beautiful bird, with shining plumage and brilliant crest, and hear the melodious notes that arise from its silvery throat! Its form proclaims beauty, and its song happiness. See those snow-white lambs skipping over the verdant grass,—now nestling sportively beside their bleating mothers, then springing forward, bounding from knoll to knoll, and filling the air with strains of joy and delight! See yonder butterfly weighing itself upon that brilliant flower: his gorgeous wings are expanded and glittering in the sun like sparkling gems! See those bright-eyed children! their glowing cheeks, their beaming eyes, and above all their clear and merry laugh proclaiming happiness pure and unbounded. Earth is truly lovely, but its inhabitants are not all happy. Oh no, not all, for one who loves the beauties of earth, rejoices in the loveliness of nature, and finds her chief pleasures in the spreading grove, by the babbling brook, among the brilliant flowers, is sad and unhappy. And why? Because she has learned too soon that there is no such thing as [real and abiding] happiness on earth, that the fairest plants wither, that pleasure is a deceitful phantom-false and fleeting. Truly she has learned all this, and will she never learn to raise her eyes to that bright world where true happiness only resides, and to trust meekly in Him who is the only Dispenser of peace and joy?"

Later we have another entry in which, after again referring to the beauties of nature, she exclaims:

"O life, life! I fain would read thy mysteries: I fain would draw aside every vail and behold for what purpose I was created. Was it to be an heir of sorrow? was it to live for myself alone, and then pass away and let my memory perish with me? No, I was born for a better—a higher and more holy purpose. I was not born to pass a few moments on the stage of life and then disappear forever…. With a shudder I turn away and would gladly forget to think. O thought, thought! thou wilt distract me,—thou hast almost hurled reason from her throne. Thou bitter tormentor! depart, if but for a moment, and let me once more find peace. But no; the more I seek to elude still nearer the demon pursues. O thought, thought! it rushes forth from my soul like the wild outpourings of the volcanic mountains and overwhelms me with its burning tide till body, mind and soul—all, all are exhausted and lie like a straw upon the roaring bosom of the deep. Oh, that I could arise, mingle with the gay, and forget my own deep and overpowering thoughts. But no; such thoughts, like the soul which gave them birth, can never die. O thought, what art thou? A blessing to angels, a curse to me. Distracted soul, sink into repose: others are happy, and wast thou born to be more wretched than they? Truly thou wast, and why? Because thou livest only in the regions of thought—thought which is burning my brain and piercing my lacerated heart. And yet a thought freighted with light beams through the dark clouds which its darker sisters have thrown around me, and the only inscription which it bears is, 'Live for others.' And another thought follows in rapid succession,—like a far-off echo it repeats the words of its predecessor, 'Live for others,' and then adds (while a vivid flash of the lightning of truth lights up the darkness of error), 'Live for God and for heaven.' A loud crash follows. Peals of thunder shake the atmosphere of my soul! Self has fallen: I will live for others, for God and for heaven."

This was a grand resolve; but not yet was the soul to be out of prison, the pilgrim to be freed from the Slough of Despond. Once more she has to write:—

"Everything is beautiful, and all nature is glad and rejoicing. Arise, my soul, and be thou glad likewise. Cast off thy gloomy fears. The God who made all the beautiful things by which thou art surrounded is not unmindful of thee. Oh, wondrous condescension! God is not forgetful of me. He gazes upon me with an eye of compassion; he pities my distress and my weakness. Amazing love! Oh, that I were more worthy of it; Oh, that I loved him as fervently as I ought! But my heart is callous, and I am nothing but a poor, cold, vile and helpless sinner: nothing but sin dwells hi my heart. It is the seat of every vice, every evil thought, and every depraved passion. [Jer. 17:9, 10; Mark 7:21-23]. Dark and gloomy clouds envelope my soul. A weight of sorrow presses upon my heart, and I vainly strive to free myself from its influence. Everything looks dark. 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me?' 'How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? forever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?' 'Mine iniquities are gone over my head: as a heavy burden they are too heavy for me. Lord, all my desire is before thee; and my groaning is not hid from thee. Make haste to help me.' 'My soul fainteth for thy salvation, but I hope in thy word.' O my God, hear my cry, and answer my petition."

"Tuesday, June 29, 1852. The sultry fires of the day have yielded to the cool breezes of evening. A misty cloud hangs over the once azure sky, and the deep, heavy roar of thunder shakes the quiet air. Nearer and nearer still it rolls its deep-toned voice, and all nature seems to reply. The vivid lightnings flash. The fountains on high are opened, and the rain pours down in torrents. Wilder grows the storm: the winds are released from their 'prison-cave,' and armed with fury they rush madly forth; brighter the lightnings glare, louder the thunders roar. The whole fabric of nature seems in commotion! Oh, who can gaze upon such a scene without emotions of awe, wonder and admiration? Surely such an one must possess a stony heart and a cold nature. There is beauty for me in the lightning's glare—there is music in the thunder's peal! God grant that there may be beauty and glory for me in the day when the thundering notes of the last trumpet shall shake the heavens and awaken the sleeping dead,—when 'the elements shall melt with fervent heat,' and every soul of every tribe, and tongue and nation shall stand before the judgment-seat to receive their final doom! O grant that the Judge may be my friend, and that I—the poorest, the lowest, the vilest of sinners—may find a seat at his right hand; and the vaults of heaven shall forever ring with the praises of a redeemed sinner, saved only through the grace and blood of the crucified Saviour."

But the hour was at hand when there was to come such relief to the troubled soul as it had never before experienced,—when the divine Comforter was to take of the things of Christ and reveal them to the longing heart,—and this maiden avow herself before the world a disciple of Christ. How was this to be effected?

Sunday, July 25, I had an appointment to preach in Magog, and after the forenoon service expected to baptize a young lady who had been a schoolmate of Miss JOHNSON. In view of that arrangement I urged that they should both go together in the ordinance, but could get no encouragement that it would be so. We went to the church, where I preached from Col. 3:1-4, and after sermon announced the hymn,—

"Gracious Lord, incline thine ear,
My request vouchsafe to hear;
Burdened with my sins, I cry,
Give me Christ, or else I die.

* * * * *

Father, thou hast given thy Son,
Bruised for sins—that I have done;
To that refuge now I fly;
Christ is mine—I shall not die."

The effect and what followed I will allow her to relate in her own words:—

"Oh, the agony and the perfect peace that I have this day enjoyed! The agony in the morning was almost insupportable. It seemed then utterly impossible for me to take up so heavy a cross as to follow my Saviour in the ordinance of baptism. The very thought was dreadful, and yet I knew that it was my duty. I felt that the anger of God would be kindled against me,—that his Holy Spirit would not always strive with me. I threw myself upon my knees; but could find no peace there as long as I continued proudly obstinate. I started from my knees and seized 'the holy Book of God'; but there was nothing there to comfort me. I paced the room hurriedly, at every step exclaiming, 'What shall I do?' and yet I knew what to do, but would not do it. Thus the morning passed away, and trembling with emotion I entered the house of God. The sermon seemed designed expressly for me. At its close I grew more agitated. The last hymn was read, and after singing we were to repair to the water, where one happy being was to follow her blessed Saviour into a watery grave. Oh, I shall never forget that hymn,— never, no never. The closing line of each verse seemed as an echo from my own heart, 'Give me Christ or else I die'; but as the last line of the last verse fell upon my ear—'Christ is mine. I shall not die," —I think that then I did truly feel determined to come boldly forth and claim the precious promises of God as my own.

"We sought the water's side, when Josephine asked me in a trembling voice if I would be baptized. I thought she expected an answer in the negative—at least I knew that she might reasonably expect it, for I had told her plainly in the morning that I could not. My heart was too full to speak: I only bowed my head in token of assent. I shall never forget the look of joy that beamed in her countenance, nor the emotions that filled my own bosom. I saw Eliza enter the water. Oh, glorious sight! I never saw, never imagined so beautiful a scene. Every fear vanished, every cloud withdrew from my soul, and I longed to enter the waving flood. O my Saviour! I did not enter it alone. Surely it was nothing short of the almighty arm of God that supported me then. I never in all my life had so little fear of man: I had no fear then. Truly it was a foretaste of heaven. Oh, happy, thrice happy moment! it was worth a whole lifetime of sorrow. If I could always feel as I did then my heart would never again be bowed down with grief: but that very afternoon Satan began to whisper: 'You will not live up to your profession; you have deceived yourself and others; you are still a wicked creature; you are not a Christian'; and yet by the grace of God I was able, in some degree at least, to resist him.

"When I partook of the Lord's supper I felt a repetition of the happiness I had while obeying the command of my Saviour and following him into a watery grave. How vividly the last supper which Christ partook of with his disciples presented itself to my mind! and then I looked forward with joyful hope to the day when all the saints of God shall eat bread in his glorious kingdom,—when all of every age and clime shall be gathered around the table, and Jesus Christ himself be in their midst. It was a soul-inspiring thought, and for all the wealth of a thousand worlds like this I would not have been absent from that communion—from which I had so often absented myself. Yes; I had never before partaken of the Lord's supper; and it was my own wicked heart which had kept me away, for God had called loudly upon me, and his Holy Spirit had again and again striven with me. Oh, what a sinner I have been, and what a longsuffering God! I wonder that he did not cast me off forever. Oh, what mercy I 'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.' And now, have I forsaken all for Christ? Have I thrown myself—body, soul, and spirit—upon the altar? I do want to sacrifice everything for Christ, and by the grace of God I will perform the following:—

"1. When my duty appears plain I will do it, whatever may be the consequences.

"2. I will never be ashamed to confess Christ before the world.

"3. I will consecrate my talents entirely to the Lord.

"4. I will never employ my pen in writing anything which I might regret at the bar of God.

"5. I will never permit any one of my compositions to be printed unless I can in sincerity ask the blessing of God to attend it.

"6. As I shall be brought into judgment for every idle word I say, I will endeavor never to engage in trifling conversation, but on every proper occasion to speak of the wondrous grace of God.

"7. I will, whenever a good opportunity occurs, warn my young companions to flee from the wrath to come.

"8. I will strive to set my affections on things above, not on things on the earth.

"9. By the assistance of the Holy Spirit I will endeavor to keep evil thoughts out of my heart, and to meditate upon the law of God.

"10. I will never pass a day without seeking some secret place at least twice a day, and pouring out my soul in prayer to God.

"11. I will study the Holy Scriptures, and endeavor to understand what I read.

"12. I will try to do all I can.

"O God, assist me to perform what I have written in thy fear and to thy glory. I am perfect weakness: but 'thou knowest my frame, thou rememberest that I am dust.' I know thou art merciful; Oh, give me a more exalted faith. Help me to come boldly forward and claim thy promises as mine. Humble my pride; keep me at thy feet; let not the temptations of Satan overcome me, but may I trust myself in thine arms. May I love thee fervently, above everything else—better, far than my own life. I can do nothing unless thou dost assist me. Oh, support me, and save me at last in thy kingdom, for Christ's sake."

In the evening of that ever memorable Sabbath she offered aloud a few words of prayer at the family altar, and next day (as she was then teaching) had prayer in her school: thus she "confessed with the mouth the Lord Jesus" while in her heart she believed that God had raised him from the dead (Rom. 10:9). Immediately after the Son of God himself was baptized, he was in the wilderness "tempted of the devil"; it need not be thought strange therefore if his followers soon after their baptism are also grievously assaulted by the same adversary. This young Christian did not escape him entirely; yet from that day until her death, though conscious of much weakness and imperfection, having many dark days and great sufferings, she never renounced her allegiance to the King of kings, who had bought her with his blood. A few more selections from her diary will show the working of her mind about this time.

"Aug. 7. A calm and quiet morning. A soothing calm steals over my soul. Faith, with triumphant wing, rises far above, the scenes of earth and points to that glorious world where Christ pleads for me before the throne of his Father. The doubts which have so long filled my heart are sinful and dishonoring to God, and I will no longer give place to them: I will look away from myself—from my sins—to the holy Lamb of God. I will trust wholly in him and in his merits alone for acceptance."

"Sunday, Aug. 8. What I have done to-day would once have seemed impossible, the cross that I have taken up would have seemed almost insupportable. I could not have believed the last time I attended the prayer-meeting that at the next one I should stand up as a witness for Christ. But thank God! my proud heart has in some degree been humbled, and the dearest hope I now cherish is, that Christ may not be ashamed to confess me before his Father and all the holy angels."

"Aug. 22. While standing this evening by the grave of one dearly beloved in life, and cherished more fondly now that death has taken her from my embrace, I could not stay the soaring flight of fancy, which would portray to my mind in vivid colors our meeting at the great Resurrection morn; and the thought that that meeting was so near—that in a very little while the grave should lose its power and that she would come forth robed in immortal beauty, filled my soul with transport and almost brought to my lips the yearning cry, 'Come, Lord Jesus, and come quickly.'"

On the 27th of August Miss JOHNSON closed her school, and after spending a few weeks at home went to the academy at Derby Centre, Vt. Under date of "Wednesday, Oct. 26," we have this entry in her journal:—

"Attended the exercises to-night and read a composition. They could not have liked it, for it was upon a subject which must be disagreeable to the world; and yet it is the subject nearest my heart—one that I love to dwell upon and to hear about: the coming of my blessed Saviour. When will the glorious morn appear! Loud and repeated cheers were given when Miss —— read her composition. Well, it was good; such as would suit the world, but not me—strange being that I am. But I shall not always be so: in heaven I shall not be a stranger. There I can converse with the saints dearly-beloved: for their conversation will be on the things of God; and my Saviour himself will deign to address me there! Why should I not then long, aye long to obtain that blissful state? And yet I sometimes fear that I shall fall far short of it, for I am so vile and polluted."

The "composition" referred to we do not find among her papers; but much that she has written shows that she was indeed deeply interested in "that blessed hope" (Tit. 2:13). She was a decided pre- millennialist, and stood identified in her church-membership with the Evangelical Adventists. On completing her eighteenth year (Oct. 27, 1852), she said:—

"This evening, while looking back through all the events of my life, what is there that rejoices me most? It is one that the past year has brought forth,—one that will ever be remembered with deep and powerful emotions: the day that consecrated me to the Lord, when I breathed forth with a fervent heart, 'Give me Christ, or else I die,' and I was enabled to take up my cross and follow my Saviour in baptism."

Here there is no regret expressed for the step she had taken, nor did she ever feel any, though she greatly deplored her weakness and unprofitableness in the Lord's service. And why not? Listen to her, under date of June 13, 1853:—

"How sweet, when the soul has no earthly support, to fly to the Rock of Ages! The Saviour is precious to the heart of the pardoned sinner. There is nothing like the love of Jesus. He is not like other friends —oftentimes wearied by our complaints and the repetition of our sorrows, but is always longsuffering and delighting to hear and answer every cry of the burdened spirit; smiling ever in the darkest of afflictions, and forever dropping the balm of consolation into the distracted breast. Oh, what a privilege to have such a friend—such a sure and steadfast friend—such a wise and omnipotent friend. And he is my friend? Yes; he is 'the sinner's FRIEND,' and therefore mine: for surely nothing but wondrous love could have led him to die a cruel and ignominious death for me, polluted as I am. O Jesus, thou art my friend and I will be thy friend; thou didst love me first and I do love thee, but not as fervently as I should, nor so much as I desire. O God, give me more of thy Holy Spirit; may it consume every unhallowed passion, tear every idol from my heart, and consecrate that heart entirely to thee."

The only journal notes of considerable length which Miss JOHNSON seems to have made were for the years 1852 and 1853. Those for 1855 and 1860 were entered in a "daily miniature diary." We find none for other years, though she always kept her pen and pencil busy in some way as long as she had strength to write. The diary for 1855 is in rhyme— usually six lines being allotted to each day. While some of the verses are playful and witty, most of them are religious and plaintive. The following are given as specimens:

"Arose at six o'clock today:
How swift the moments sped away
Engaged in household duties;
Then Virgil claimed awhile my care,
And Pope of time a larger share,
With all his sweets and beauties."

"Mr. Goodenough and wife
Came here yesterday;
Through the changing scenes of life
Onward be their way;
And never may their path be rough
So long as they are Good-enough."

"Received of Robinson to-day
For my 'Address' a little pay:
The first of cash I ever had
For writing verses, good or bad.
O Lord, whate'er my gains may be
The tenth I dedicate to thee."

"I would not seek the haunts of mirth,
For in the gayest scenes of earth
Are hovering grief and care;
But oft I find a soothing power,
At twilight's calm and peaceful hour,
In secret prayer."

"Jesus, oh, precious name!
How sweet it sounds to me;
Come want, come grief, come death or shame
I'll cling, my Lord, to thee."

"I'd rather be distressed with doubts
And find no sweet release,
Than be content to settle down
In false repose and peace;
But, ah! I wish I knew my name
In the Lamb's book a place could claim."

"While here distressed I lie,
What joy my heart doth thrill
At the enchanting thought,
That Jesus loves me still!"

"Sweet Sabbath morn! to me it brings,
As if on angel's airy wings,
Visions of peace and rest:
I seem to stand upon the plains
Where an eternal Sabbath reigns,
And dwell the pure and blest.

"I wept—when lo, my heart to cheer
J—— sobbing whispered in my ear:
'Don't cry, for I will serve the Lord;'
How sweet the sound! what great reward."
[Psa. 126:5,6].

"How little comfort have I known
In this dark vale of tears!
For Sorrow marked me for her own
In childhood's early years.
And ever since, by night and day,
Has hovered round my lonely way."

"'Twas nearly two—but sleep had fled
My pillow for the night;
I rose—but all was dark around,
And I could find no light:
And then I knelt and prayed for those
Who, like me, found no sweet repose."

"Sick, sick, sick,
And gloomy all the day;
Sick, sick, sick,
Thus life wears away."

"Murmur not, my troubled soul,
At thy Father's dealings;
Wild the billows round thee roll:
Yield not to the feelings
Of despair that gather round:
Troubles rise not from the ground."
[Job 5:6-8].

"How many souls around the throne
Once suffered here like me,—
Like me discouraged, tempted, tried,
But now for ever free:
They shout their griefs and trials o'er;
Then let me fear and doubt no more."

"At home all day; I cannot pray,
Can neither read nor think:
O God, I cry; the waves roll high,
Support me or I sink."

"Did I murmur that the rod
Was so heavy, O my God?
I forgot the cursed tree,
I forgot Gethsemane,
I forgot the grief and pain—
May I ne'er forget again."

"Unworthy, wretched as I am
I hope for mercy through the Lamb:
His name, his glorious name prevails
When every other passport fails;
It opens Heaven's eternal gate;
Then, doubting soul, why longer wait?"

"Sabbath after Sabbath comes;
When will dawn the endless day?
Swiftly roll the wheels of time,
Swiftly pass the hours away;
Brighter and brighter from afar
View we now 'the Morning Star.'"

"And we, alas! are called to part:
'Farewell' is said, with aching heart;
But God will watch o'er thee I ween,
And guide thee through each trying scene,
My dearest sister Josephine!"

"The glorious sun—
His race has run,
And sweetly sought repose:
O that for me
This life might be
As bright—as calm its close!"

"What an awful peal of thunder!
O my soul, be still and wonder;
Yet another, and another—
Each one louder than the other;
God of heaven, I see thy power,
May I feel it hour by hour."

"A thousand twinkling stars to-night
Look down with soft and silvery light
And tell the majesty divine
Of Him who gives them leave to shine.
Oh, what an atom must I be,
And yet He loves and cares for me!"

"The wheels of Time-how swift they roll!
Dost thou consider, O my soul,
That it shall soon be said to thee:
'Time was, but time no more shall be'?
Then seize upon the present hour;
Improve it to thy utmost power."

In the fall of 1856 Miss JOHNSON was prostrated by disease, and nearly all the time afterwards confined to the house. So numerous and complicated were her difficulties as to baffle the skill of all the physicians who saw her, and no one knows the amount of suffering she endured. Her mind however was active and vigorous, and though there were seasons—sometimes quite protracted—when to her the heavens above seemed as brass and the earth iron, yet God did not forsake her: the sunshine succeeded the storm, and the peace that Jesus gives—was poured into her wounded heart. Referring to her afflictions in 1858 and the two following years she writes:—

"Those were days and nights of anguish, but I now look back to them with feelings of regret, for my feet had only touched the dark waters and my lips had only tasted the cup from which I was to drink the very dregs. Early in the spring of 1858 I was seized with fever and acute inflammation of the stomach, which brought me to the verge of the grave. I could feel the warm tears of beloved ones upon my cheeks, as they bent tenderly over me; I could see the dark vale just ahead (though there was a light amid the darkness), but my sufferings were not to be so soon terminated. Gradually my disease assumed a chronic form, and physicians said there was no hope. The little nourishment I could take distressed me so, terribly that the very thought of eating made me shudder, and my stomach became so sore that I could not be moved from one side of the bed to the other without uttering a cry of pain. Winter, spring, summer and autumn in turn visited the earth, and with each I thought, aye, longed to depart; but the great Refiner had his own purpose to accomplish,—there was a little fine gold but the dross rendered it useless. The ordeal through which I am passing is indeed a terrible one, but I know where peace and consolation are to be found, and there are times when I can say in sincerity, 'Thy will be done.'"

Thursday, Jan. 1,1863, she wrote:—

"Bright, beautiful day. Many people on the ice. Edwin [her brother] there. Over our dwelling is a shadow; it falls upon our spirits and we are sad. Will it never be removed? God grant we may be patient and grateful for the blessings we do enjoy, for are not friends—true, tender friends, the greatest and holiest of blessings? and while we have them God forgive us for murmuring at his dealings."

The last entries in her diary are: "Feb. 2. Very sick"; "Tuesday, 3rd. No better." It is uncertain when the following lines were written, but it might have been about this time:—

"I'm going home to that bright land of rest
Where pain and grief and sickness are unknown;
The year begins in sorrow, but will close
In joys that never end—I'm going home!
Last year the warning came on sunken eye
And wasted cheek. I gazed and thought to spend
My Christmas with the angels. God knows best;
And here I linger, weary sufferer still.
The morning comes long watched-for, long desired;
The day drags on, and then the sleepless night:
But this will have an end—it must be soon."

About six weeks before her death she was taken with nausea and vomiting: everything she took distressed her, and for the last twenty-three days she took no nourishment save what water contains. Her prayer—

"Close to the Cross, close to the Cross. God grant I may be found
When death shall call my spirit hence, or the last trumpet sound,"—

was indeed answered. Her end was very peaceful and happy. For several weeks not a cloud seemed to pass over her mind; and though often in great distress there was no impatience manifested, nor did a murmur escape her lips. She said, "It is nothing to die: 'the sting of death is sin,' and when sin is taken away the sting is gone." On another occasion she remarked: "I have often heard the words sung—

'Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are'—

and thought they were not strictly true; but now I know that they are perfectly, perfectly so." Once as we stood by her bedside she observed her mother and sister weeping, and with a countenance beaming with joy (sufficient to remind us of 1 Pet. 1:8) she expressed surprise, remarking: "It seems to me I am only crossing a narrow brook, and as I look back I see you all coming—we shall soon meet." Her view of her own weakness and sinfulness was indeed clear, but she had such unwavering faith in her Redeemer as enabled her to say: "Dying seems to me like laying the head back and closing the eyes, just to open them in a few moments on the joys of paradise." The following lines, written with a pencil on the cover and blank leaf of her French Testament, were the last she ever wrote. They are dated March 3—just ten days before her death—and give indubitable evidence of the clearness of her intellect and the strength of her faith while passing through "the valley of the shadow of death":—

"Jesus, I know thou art the living Word!
Each blessed promise to myself I take;
I would not doubt, if I had only heard
This—this alone, 'I never will forsake!'

I have no fear-the sting of death is sin,
And Christ removed it when he died for me:
Washed in his blood, my robe without, within,
Has not a stain that God himself can see.

Wrapped in the Saviour's arms I sweetly lie;
Far, far behind I hear the breakers roar;
I have been dying—but I cease to die,
My rest begins—rejoice forevermore!"

Having expressed a wish to be visited by all her acquaintances, many called to see her, with whom she conversed freely on the interests of their soul. With great composure she made arrangements for her departure—leaving books and other articles to her intimate friends. One day she made a request that I should preach her funeral sermon. For a moment I hesitated because of relationship (having married her sister Josephine), then remarked, that I supposed there would be no impropriety in doing so, as I recollected that Whitefield preached his wife's, to which she immediately added, "And Wesley preached his mother's." On asking if she had thought of any passage to be used as a text, she replied: "I first thought of the words, 'I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness'; but you know that is all about I, and now I feel that Christ is all—it is all Christ: so I have thought of his words in the 11th of John, 'I am the Resurrection and the Life.'" She also suggested to her sister that the following hymns (which were favorites with her) should be used on the occasion:

"Come let us join our cheerful songs
With angels round the throne;"

"On Jordan's stormy banks I stand
And cast a wishful eye,"—

"Joyfully, joyfully, onward I move,
Bound for the land of bright glory and love."

The joyous character of the hymns will at once be noted; and this was the very reason why she selected them: she considered that they would be more expressive of her condition than the mournful ones which are so frequently used at funerals. Two of her poems seem so appropriate here that we insert them. The former was written in June, 1859, and the latter bears date "Nov. 30, 1861":—

THE ONE NAME.—ACTS 4:12.

"When round my dying bed ye stand,
And kiss my cheek and clasp my hand,
Oh, whisper in my failing ear
The only Name I care to hear,—
The only Name that has the power
To comfort in the dying hour.

"Let neither sob nor sigh be heard,
But still repeat that sacred word,—
Until the solace it imparts
Descends like balm upon your hearts,
And I in triumph gladly sing:
'O dreaded Death, where is thy sting?'

"And when released from sin and clay
My happy spirit soars away,
And pauses at the heavenly gate,
Where saints and smiling angels wait,
And views the city bright and fair,—
That Name shall be my passport there!

"Oh then, in calm and holy trust,
Give my poor body to the dust—
Assured that God will guard the clay
Until the Resurrection Day,
When he on whom my soul relies
In thunder tones will bid me rise.

"Amid the earth-devouring storm,
Made like my Saviour's glorious form,
Redeemed from sickness, death, and pain,
I shall awake to life again;
And soul and body both shall be
With Christ throughout eternity."

THE ADIEU.

"You will miss me when I am gone—
At morning, at night, and noon:
I have needed your arm to lean upon,
I shall need it no longer soon.

"I've been helpless for many years,
'No burden' you always said;—
I have claimed your pity, your prayers and tears
You will miss me when I am dead.

"How many a dreary night
You have watched by my couch of pain,
Till the streaming in of morning light—
You will never watch again.

"God taketh not all away
The bitter and sweet he blends,
And I bless his name by night and day
That he has not denied me friends.

"You have shared the heavy load,
Which alone I could not have borne;
I am going now to a bright abode,
But I leave you, alas! to mourn.

"You will miss me when I am gone,
As you never have missed before!
I have needed your arm to lean upon
But soon I shall need it no more.

"I lean on my Saviour's breast
In this hour of mortal pain;
Oh, strong are His arms! and sweet my rest!
Farewell! till we meet again."

The expected hour though long of coming arrived at last. As long as she seemed to realize what was transpiring around her, and when too weak to converse, she would signify by a word or motion that she had peace and all was well. About a quarter past 11 o'clock Friday night, March 13, 1863, "the silver cord was loosed," and she sweetly fell asleep in Jesus, aged twenty-eight years, four months, and sixteen days. On the Tuesday following we buried her from the village church, where ten years before she had decided to come out openly on the Lord's side. It was crowded. Three ministers, from as many different denominations, assisted me in the services. Her mother and sister (the wife of Dr. G. O. Somers) were too feeble to attend. But we hope soon to greet her where—to use her own words,

"Earthly love is like the starlight lost
In glorious sunshine, and the things of time
Shrink into nothing: even death itself
Fades like a shadow in the noontide blaze,
And life—new, glorious, everlasting life—
Expands the soul, and all it ever dreamed
Of heavenly bliss becomes reality."

Above the stillness of death we hear the words of inspiration: "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints"; "Thy dead shall live again"; and in hope we wait. The weary pilgrim has reached her resting-place. She lies in the chamber of Peace, whose windows open toward the sunrising.