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decidedly objected to leave her quiet retreat, she now said, "Do you think that grandmamma will die? If you do, I must
go to N . I must tell her what religion has done for
me, and how terrible it would be for her to leave this world without a sure hope for the next. I lay it upon you that you will not suffer my grandmother to die, if you know she is in danger, without my going to see her."
The dear child was then unable to undertake the journey, and the alarming symptoms in her grandmother's state subsided; but for several days Adele talked of writing to her, though she was never able to accomplish this. Her grandmother recovered, but not sufficiently to allow of their meeting. Adele's anxiety for her welfare was, however, communicated to her. The last few weeks of her life she had but few intervals of ease, though she still at times enjoyed her little garden, in which, though unable to walk, she spent several hours every day. One morning, after a very trying night, she said, "My illness is very long; it is very difficult for me to be always calm and resigned. I pray God to spare me great suffering, lest at last I should rebel against Him."
One evening, after much nervous agitation and spasm, on taking leave of her father, she said, "Now, papa, I am going to take my greatest soother." Her father appearing not to understand her meaning, she added, "I find nothing calms me under these agitations like prayer. Miss C. and I pray together, and when I have prayed I feel quiet, and able to take a little sleep."
"One night," writes her friend, "when we had carried her upstairs, whilst her father supported her on the couch, sweetly looking up in his face, she said, ' Do you know, my father, He is gone to prepare a place for us? Will you be able to take comfort from the hope of meeting us there? (meaning herself and her mother). Do you believe in these things?' Her father answered, 'Yes, my daughter, I believe, I hope. God is merciful and great, we must hope in Him.' On seeing him affected, she tried to turn the 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, "Adele, 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, Adele 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 ane, 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 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!'
"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 N , for it was useless. 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