kept at that time I find his name constantly occurring, with some short remark, but little is given in detail. Fo instance, I prayed with T. R.; he is in a very meek and lowly spirit."-"I went to see T. R. he is very ill, but in a promising state of mind."-" T. R.-a deeply interesting interview with him.". "I went in the evening to my poor little friend T. R. who has now taken to his bed. I had a most affecting interview with him. He spoke to me about his mother, and with a broken and contrite heart ahout himself."-" This evening spent some time with T. R. I was much pleased with him. While with him I wrote, chiefly by his dictation, to who has been so dangerous a companion to him." "I passed some time with T. R. who is, I hope, better prepared for his removal from this present world. The poor boy is much endeared to me. I must endeavour, at some future time, to write down a narrative of my conversations with him." "T. R. is worse. He has been very ill all day, and was very low this evening; but appeared happier after we had prayed together."-" T. R. very humble and happier. He gets weaker and weaker, but not in faith.""I prayed with poor T. R. He is apparently going very fast but he is, I believe, in a blessed state of mind. He said to me, in answer to a question which I put to him, with a voice faint from his extreme weakness, "I am all hope!" and as I left him, he added, "I will keep on asking for mercy; I think he will hear me!" Much as he had disliked my presence at first, I was now struck by his affection for me.

eyes

I had often observed his fixed on my hand as it lay upon the open Bible, and I had as often withdrawn it; for it seemed to me that he was comparing its healthy appearance with his own, now so wasted and so pallid; and that when he marked the contrast, he was grieved about it; I said to him one day, "Why do you look so earnestly upon my hand?" "Because I do so love it!" was his instant reply; and before I was aware of his intention he bent down his head suddenly and pressed his lips to it.

Not long before his death, being one day too unwell to see him, I sent to enquire after him. They brought me word that they feared he would die that night. The next day, however, on going to his mother's cottage I found him a little revived. As I was taking leave of him he looked at me very anxiously, and said, "There is still one thing that grieves me." I began I began to fear that some blessed truth was not clearly apprehended, some precious promise not heartily received, and I asked him, almost in as anxious a spirit, what it was that troubled him. "I find," he answered with a trembling voice," that I cannot love Jesus my Saviour as I ought to love him; I cannot, do not love Him!" "But you wish to love Him," I said, "you wish to love Him with your whole heart." Instantly the tears rushed into his eyes, and his whole face became crimson. "Oh! indeed, indeed, I do," he replied, and then after a pause he added, "but I will go on praying, and He can but cast me off at last." "He will not do so, you know He will not," I said. "No: He will not! He will not!" and as he spoke a bright smile spread over his whole face.

The next time that I visited him I find it written in

my diary, "I fear that I have taken my last leave in this world of my interesting charge T. R. He turned to me, and said, 'Father, if we do not meet again in this world I think that we shall meet in heaven.' He was, as I always found him, in the same earnest humble state of mind. The tears gathered into his eyes as he begged his mother to leave him alone with me. She will have no one to care for her when I am gone,' he said, 'be a friend to her for my sake.' Every word he thus uttered was spoken with difficulty, and with a pause between." The day (unlike that on which I paid my first visit to him) was bright with the warm, beautiful sunshine of spring. The trees were bursting into leaf; and in the fresh grass of the green fields opposite the cottage the cowslip had begun to lift up its gay and scented flowers. The sweet singing of the birds in the hedge-rows of the lane beneath the open casement came with the pleasant air into the chamber of death. I remembered the melancholy words of a dying person, whom I attended in the spring of the foregoing year. He was sitting at an open window, and as he looked out upon the beautiful garden before him, and saw the trees and the flowers in the first glory of their new life, he said, "Tis sad to leave all this at such a season, and to go down to the dark grave." I observed a shade of sadness on the countenance of T. R. and I spoke to him of the paradise of the children of God, reminding him that we are taught to expect that a far more glorious beauty will be spread over every thing there. "There will be brighter skies," I said, "and fairer scenes; and the angels of God, and the spirits of saints already departed, to bear you company." I paused for a moment; and with an effort (for every word was an effort to him) he continued the sentence " AND CHRIST!" They were the last words he ever spoke to me.

At a very early hour the next morning a message caine from him that he was dying, and wished to see me; but when I reached the cottage, I found only the pale, lifeless body, lying motionless as a statue of ivory, the face calm and beautiful with peace, and his mother weeping over it.

I firmly believe that his sins were all blotted out by the blood of Jesus Christ; that his spirit was converted and sanctified by the quickening power of God the Holy Ghost; and that he was forgiven and accepted by the Father of Mercies as a living and inseparable member of that mystical body, of which His own Son is the everliving and glorified head.

I have added to this account a narrative, already published, of a young man whose happiness was undermined by the specious infidelity of the Owenite principles. Henry Hdied broken-hearted in London, and a few months afterwards my poor young parishioner died at Hodnet.

"In the autumn of 1831, Henry H-- arrived in London from Maidstone. His education had been liberal; his disposition was kind; his manners pleasing and gentlemanly; his person handsome. Like other young men, however, he had greedily perused those publications so widely circulated at the present day, the leading principles of which are deism, or atheism. In addition to this, he became a constant attendant at

the places where the same principles were publicly maintained. The result was, that he became an unbeliever. The Bible, and every thing derived from it, were now objects of aversion to him. Those parts of it which were above his comprehension, he condemned as irrational: its plain and practical precepts he turned into ridicule.

It was in vain that he enjoyed the benefit of the advice and example of the relation under whose roof he was. The pride of reasoning, and perhaps a little affectation of singularity, rendered him callous to all arguments, but such as were drawn from the school to which he had devoted himself. In a word, having assiduously attended every lecture upon his favourite subject, no matter where, or by whom delivered, poor Henry had been taught to believe that the Bible produced taxation and suffering, discontent and disunion; and that the only sure way to get rid at once of all the evils incident to the human race, was to have no religion at all.

From all places where he might have been made sensible of the folly of these doctrines, he studiously absented himself. All forms of worship were alike abjured by him.

The new system of morality, which, according to his views, was soon to renovate the world, and to make it an earthly paradise, was to be produced solely by the exertion of the native energies of the mind of man!

In the belief or disbelief of a hereafter, he was not quite fixed. As to this great point, he was in a state of wavering and uncertainty. In short, he had not yet established himself in his new principles, before he was called upon to put them to the test.

On the 27th of November, this young gentleman was in the enjoyment of excellent health, and full of the life and gaiety of youth. On that day, while walking with the writer in Henrietta-street, Brunswick-square, he was strenuously maintaining the position that death was only a change from one form of matter to another; and was advocating, generally, with a confidence that savoured little of sober and serious reflection, the principles of Paine, Carlile, and Owen. Before three weeks more had passed over his head, he was a corpse; and within a few yards from the spot where he had been conversing, was consigned to the grave!

On the 29th, he complained of head-ache, and was confined to his room. His disease soon became manifest it was the small-pox. About the sixth or seventh day of his illness, he became restless and uneasy; and from certain expressions which fell from him, it appeared that something lay heavy upon his

mind.

that he should deliver them himself, he replied, "Do me this favour, it is not likely that I shall ever see him; at any rate, I have no wish to do so. Even if I were able, I should certainly never visit those haunts of infidelity again. What do my visits to them avail me now? nothing, worse than nothing! What consolation have I now from what I have of late been taught to believe?"

Upon its being hinted to him that in case of recovery, he would again be an attendant on Mr. Owen's lectures, "Never," he exclaimed, "never, his very name his horrible to me."

Two days before his death, and when he was himself fully sensible that all hope of his recovery was at an end, he was heard from the adjoining room crying out, "O my Lord and my God, do thou forgive me." And ejaculations of this kind were continued by him for hours together. To a person who now attended him, he often repeated, "How can I bear this heavy visitation? O God! have mercy upon me, O God! do thou assist me."

On another occasion he asked, "What noise is that ?" Mrs. S told him it was only mice. "Mice, mice," he said: "would that I were as innocent as they! Oh, Mrs. S- how have I been deluded! O Jesus, (lifting up his hands,) into what errors have I fallen! have mercy upon me!"

The day before he died, he addressed Mrs. Sthus: 66 I shall very soon be numbered with the dead. I have one request to make, will you promise to fulfil it? Tell Mr. Owen, that I listened to him with attention, and that, as a young man, I was pleased with his philosophy; but tell him at the same time, that I would now give worlds that I had never heard it: it was vanity on my part, and on his, foolishness. Tell him also not to lead other young men astray as he did me: I was wrapped up in him; and was deluded, fatally deluded. Beseech him, in the name of God, to search the Scriptures with a desire to understand them, and not for the purpose of vain cavilling, and unprofitable dispute. A few days ago I was in health like him; see me now: tell him, from a dying young man, not to trust in his philosophy; it will not console him when he is as I am.

Exhausted with speaking, he disengaged his hands, which had been clasped in those of his friend; and after dozing a short time, resumed: "One more request, Mrs. S for my sake, I hope you will not forget it. I was often accompanied to those lectures by Miss C. W.: tell her affectionately from me, if she values her peace here, and her happiness hereafter, to avoid those assemblies, where every thing serious is scoffed at. I shall never see her again; but, oh! tell her from me, that except she repent, she cannot see God; that what I have often listened to in her company, is now a source of bitterness and remorse to me: but that the goodness of the Almighty gives me here on my death-bed peace and hope, and that I die in charity with all mankind."

At one o'clock in the morning on the 15th, he had only strength enough feebly to exclaim, "My God, my God, I am an orphan child, have mercy on me; O Jesus, I come;" and a little after two, poor Henry expired."

Extracts from the Journal of a District Visitor.

Number I.

THE LAST DAYS OF A DRUNKARD.

I was sent for to visit a sick man. My visit proved a very distressing one. I found a poor wretched creature evidently on the brink of the grave. I had no sooner

begun to speak to him of his immortal soul and eternity, than he expressed the greatest horror, and in a state of gasping agony, begged of me not to speak to him about such things. I offered to kneel down and pray with him, but at once he forbad me. At this moment his sister, an aged woman, the only individual residing with him, came in. On seeing me, she attempted to hide something under her apron; but the unfortunate man no sooner perceived his sister entering the room, than he held out both his hands with great eagerness, impatiently urging her to give him what afterwards proved to be a bottle of ardent spirits. The miserable woman had been fetching it for him. No remonstrance on my part could persuade him not to take the poison, (for poison it must have been to him in the state he then was). His whole mind seemed to be wrapped up in this one single desire, and being put in possession of the bottle with its contents, he appeared for the moment to desire nothing else. But as soon as he had emptied it, he relapsed into a state of misery and despair, giving vent to the most horrible imprecations, addressing himself to the evil spirits which he declared he saw around threatening to seize upon him. He was a fearful object! I endeavoured to lead him to the Cross of Christ, I reminded him that Jesus died for sinners, but this irritated him the more, and turning his ghastly countenance to me, he said, "Pray, Sir, let me alone, don't torment me;" and then speaking to his sister, he said, "Can't you suffer me to be left alone? why did you send for him?" and then, making an attempt to start from his bed, evidently to get away from me, his strength failed him, and he sunk exhausted on his pillow, gasping for breath, and presenting an awful spectacle such as I never saw before. I persevered, however, and spoke to him again of the atonement made by Jesus; he appeared to soften down and become more calm, and I took advantage of this by expressing a wish to pray with him, to which he attended. Whilst I prayed, he said several times "Amen;" he appeared more reconciled before I left him, though when I asked him about his hope he said, "There is no heaven for me," and I had reason to fear that if I had prolonged my stay, he would have relapsed into his former condition.

Second Day.

At an early hour the next day I called on Mr. W. I found him sitting up in bed. As soon as he saw me he said, "Good morning, Sir, the Lord has heard your prayers, I feel easier in my mind." I was greatly surprised at his altered demeanor, and I said, "Well let us thank the Lord who has condescended to answer our prayer," to which he answered, "If you please." Afterwards his sister said to him "Well, will you have the Rev. Mr.- to come and administer the sacrament to you?” At which to my utter astonishment he fell into the same violent agonies in which I saw him the day before, crying in broken accents, "Don't torment me, let me alone

Sir," and raging in a most terrible manner. I begged of his sister (who stood there, not seeming at all surprised at this sudden change) to solve the mystery. She said, "He fears that if Mr.- was to come he would be obliged to confess his sins, and" she added, with a significant shake of the head, " he has led a very wicked life." She then related to me some of his numerous sins, too terrible to repeat here, and tracing them back to their source---she shewed how drunkenness was the beginning and cause of his distress. I then endeavoured to point out to him the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world, reminding him of the All-seeing God who knoweth all secret things, and bidding him make his confession to Him, but all was in vain. It was evident to me then that he thought more of his body than of his soul, for as long as I spoke to him soothingly, he would listen attentively, but no sooner did I mention death and eternity than he became violent. I asked him again before I left him if he wished to see the Rev. Mr. at which he looked wild at me, striving in his passion to say something; but he could not utter a word, and he seemed as if he would choke every minute. To my sorrow I found that he would not come to Christ; Satan appeared to have the mastery over him, and there was not one gleam of hope n the darkness of his wretched mind. Having made several hopeless visits to him during this day, I called again in the evening, when his state was almost the same as in the morning, only that now he would not suffer me to pray with him, saying that I might come to-morrow.

Third Day.

My first visit in the district this morning, was again to Mr. W. He was sitting in a chair near the fire, apparently lost in thought; he made an effort to jump up when he saw me, but his strength failed him, and he fell back in his seat, "You see," he said in great agitation, "I am very weak," and pointing to a watch which hung over the mantel piece, he continued in broken accents, "it will soon be twelve o'clock." His sister then told me, that, before I came, he said that he thought he should die at twelve. I embraced this opportunity of speaking to him of the necessity of his losing no time, entreating him to throw himself at the foot of the Cross of our gracious Saviour, and to have faith in God's promises; but I observed that every word I spoke, though it came as a sword to his soul and wounded him, had not the desired effect. Alas, the wounded conscience seemed excited to greater enmity against God and his Anointed, and wrung the following expressions from his polluted lips, "Have done, for the love of God; don't speak to me about prayers, or any such things; why don't you let me rest," &c. Such was his state during the whole of that day-his last day upon earth.

Late in the evening I again visited Mr. W. when he was worse both in mind and body. I never saw such a picture of despair as he then presented! When I besought him to look to Jesus, who alone could save him from the gulph of despair, he said he should be glad if I would say no more to him then, but he would be ready to listen to me in the morning. I then found it my duty to tell him that I did not think he would live to see another day, at which he again became very violent, attempting to fly he knew not whither-his strength however forsook him, and he motioned to me

with his hands to go, attempting to utter something which he was unable to do, and gasping for breath he dropt his head on his chest. I soon after left him, commending him to a merciful God, who is able to save to the uttermost.

The following morning I went to visit Mr. W. but I found the window blind down, and was told by a neighbour, who stood near, that "he was gone." He died three hours after I had left him the evening before. He did not change in sentiments, but grew worse and worse. Unwilling to leave this world, and full of horror about the world to come! I was also given to understand, by a pious woman who was present when he died, and had it corroborated to me afterwards by his sister, that soon after I was gone that evening he persisted in having some more spirits, which were sent for to D. Street, some distance from his house; but the messenger not coming back in time for him, he insisted upon having some from a neighbouring public house, as he could not wait any longer, His unhappy sister did not dare, she said, to disobey him; his hellish desire was complied with-and thus he died.

A CHRISTMAS MEDITATION.

The Birth of Christ announced to the Shepherds. "AND the Angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger." Luke ii. 10—12. The day when the world was to be regenerated, and as it were created a second time, had then at length arrived. An angel is sent to reveal the wonders of this day to the earth. How much is contained in the few words which he pronounced. He made known who He is that has just been granted to men-the Christ, the Messiah who had been promised from the beginning of ages. Why He is given to them!-as a Saviour to bear the burden of all their iniquities, if they will receive Him in faith; to deliver them from the dreadful condemnation under which they were lying, and open for them the way to heaven. Where He is born-in the city of David, as it had been foretold by the prophets. What is His supreme majesty, even in the midst of His temporary abasement!-He is the Lord! before whom every knee must one day bow: and ought indeed to have filled those with joy, those to whom the messenger spoke. This Lord, this Saviour, this Christ, was born unto them.

He who could speak of such a wonderful event as the incarnation of the eternal Son of God as the angel did, without preparation, without comment, or without the ornament of human eloquence, must have been well accustomed to the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven; and he must also have fully known the majesty of Him, who in becoming a little child, chose to be born in a stable, to join these two opposite extremes, without caring to attempt to reconcile them; and to distinguish Him who is eminently Lord of all, as one wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger.

In this manger was contained the germ, as it were, of the whole Gospel dispensation. Man was diseased with the love of the riches, or the pomps, or the pleasures of the world; and this deadly attachment was bringing him to the very gates of death. Jesus Christ came to heal him by shewing him the vanity and nothingness of all those idols upon which his heart was fixed, and by leading him to set his affections on the only real and lasting good. In doing

this, He began by depriving Himself of all those things He wished to teach us to despise. He could not lead us to happiness but through this strait gate and this narrow way; and He himself went before us, as our Example and our Guide. It was at the moment of His entering the world, that He gave us that lesson which was most of all necessary to us.

This high and holy lesson which was so far beyond the reach of the human mind, has thus been brought down to suit the comprehension of the most simple; and those admirable maxims set up by the gospel-such as, that humility is to be preferred to honor, self-denial to riches, temperance to self-indulgence these maxims, which our fallen nature, however needful they may be to its moral reformation, rejects with all its might, have been, thanks to the manger of our Saviour, brought down to the comprehension of every intelligent creature without exception. To understand them no arguments are necessary; the manger of our blessed Lord becomes an oracle, from which there can be no appeal; for let it not be said that since God has humbled himself to a stable, any of his weak and wretched creatures should dare to nourish high pretensions, or seek after the debasing pleasures of sense. This is not all. In coming into the world, Christ came to pay the enormous debt of our transgressions. Pride is at the root of most of these our transgressions, it is the disposition of mind which separates us most effectually from God, and is the greatest barrier to our reconciliation with Him; there is no other sin more offensive in His sight, or more injurious to ourselves. And therefore, from this first entrance into the world, Jesus began to make satisfaction for it, nor did He cease to do so during the whole of His sojourn upon earth, from the stable were He was born, to the cross on which He expired.

How

It was to the lowly shepherds that Jesus ordained that His coming should be first made known. The most distinguished in Israel either by authority, or wisdom, or greatness, were left in ignorance of what was revealed to these humble shepherds. God's dealings with men have ever continued to be of the same character. He has hid from the wise and prudent of this world—those who were puffed up with their own vain pretensions-the things which He is ever ready to reveal "unto babes." indeed would the rulers of the Jewish Nation, blinded as they were by their pride and worldliness, have received the announcement of the wonderful event which had just taken place? What would they have answered to the angel, had he said to them, "By this ye shall know the Lord; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger?" They were impatiently looking for a Messiah who would gratify all their worldly and carnal passions. He who came down to earth to oppose and overcome all such passions, would not therefore suit them.

Jesus appeared upon earth that he might be born in our hearts. And this is effected by His implanting there the graces of humility, simplicity, self-denial, in a word all those graces which shone forth in a more peculiar manner in Him, and were the accompaniments of His own temporal birth, and which must distinguish in some degree those into whose hearts He has entered. He who has them not, but is governed by an opposite principle does not belong to Jesus Christ, however he may affect to adorn himself with the name of his disciple; he cannot say that "a Saviour has been born unto him."

G.

"God hath set the sea its bounds," said Luther, "He suffers the same to beat and rage with its waves, as if they would overwhelm every thing; yet they must not pass the shore-although God keeps the waters within their bounds, not with iron, but with weak walls of sand.”

THE MERCHANT'S CLERE.

CHAPTER I.

I AM about to return to the well-spring of my young and warm affections. Alas, the stream has long ceased to freshen its deep and fretted channel. I must stand by and tremble, (for I am not what I was), while memory unseals the poisoned spring. Tremble, do I Tremble, do I say? surely the full gush of those young and gladsome feelings will make me lose awhile the consciousness of what I am, will bathe my spirit in delights which but very lately seemed lost for ever.

Forty years ago I can remember a morning that I passed in this chamber, this very chamber where I am now sitting; I was then about ten years of age and at home for the holydays. Let me look around me? Yes, all about this room looked then as it now does. The weather was, as it now is, very cheerless. The rain beat against the window panes in large drops, and then streamed down the glass; there was the same little pool of water oozing over the sill of discoloured oak. The foliage of the vine then grew, as it does at present, partly over the window; and in the upper corner there seems to be the same martin's nest, with the dark shining head of the little bird peeping partly forth. There hangs the well known picture of my Great Uncle, painted in crayons, by Cotes, when he was at Westminster School. They used to reckon me like him. I had when a boy the same mild ingenuous countenance, the same clear healthy skin, the same untroubled brow, and thick brown hair.

I am sitting at the same old table, covered with faded green cloth, which I loved to spread over with my books and drawing materials, when a boy; I remember that I found it among some rejected lumber in one of the garrets, and I brought it down to my own favourite room, and with it the two worm-eaten, high-backed chairs which have remained here ever since. Oh, merciful God, what am I? that Thou hast been so gracious to me? that I should be thus snatched as a brand from the burning? What a world of wretchedness have I known during the last forty years. It will be, I fear, but a loathsome task for me to write down the feelings of my vain and sinful heart, the events of my past life. I would not do it, I would content myself with mourning over the past in secret, with repentance and anguish of spirit before my God, did I not hope that from my story others might receive a timely warning. I feel that I may unveil the naked deformity of vice, but I must be faithful. I will make no needless display of what my soul now sickens at, and if I must describe iniquity, I will disgust my reader with the view, making its form more hideous. Useless indeed are those warnings where the senses are provoked into sin while a pretence is kept up that the cold tame judgment is asked to disprove it. I wish to exhibit the process by which the young and inexperienced may gradually and almost insensibly be initiated into the common everyday guiltiness of the busy world! How virtuous and genuine feelings may be changed into worthless habits! And how a man may still display those qualities which are current among the loose moralities of the unprincipled world, and become more maudlinized, (I can't find a better word) more pitiful, more wretchedly lost to his God and to himself. I could weep when I think of

the many, many fine, ingenuous, manly youths who leave the house of their childhood full of noble and honest simplicity, confiding in themselves and others, with real enthusiasm for truth and honour: but who soon learn the cold calculating lessons of worldly, carnal, nay infernal selfishness, and with ruined health and aching hearts and enfeebled intellects become at last unfit for anything that is good or great. And this is still going on; it was but yesterday that a frank, simple-minded lad left this village, as I did many years ago, to become a clerk

in London.

My Father was an Officer in the Navy, and having been severely wounded under the famous Lord Rodney, he retired on a pension broken down in constitution to the little Town of Petersfield, in Hampshire. He was an honest and kind-hearted man, but I was only five years old when he died, and can remember but little about him. He was rather severe at times, and I always feared him, till the day before he died, when I was taken at his desire to his bedside. He spoke very kindly then, and smiled upon me and stroked down my curling hair with his thin hand. When my Mother was called out of the room my Father begged her to place me upon the bed near him, and I sat there very quietly, and half afraid, for many minutes. I did not like to look at him, so I bent down and played with the little tufts of cotton upon the counterpane. I remember that I pulled out one or two of those little tufts which stuck up above the others, and when I had done so, I looked round slily and fearfully to see whether my Father had observed me, and half expected a scolding. He was looking full at me, but had not a thought to notice the counterpane. Large tears were streaming over his pale thin face, yet he smiled very tenderly again, and I felt that all at once I loved him without any fear. I crept up close to him and kissed him gently, and then drew his arm close round my neck, with my head leaning on his arm. The Holy Bible was lying on the bed, and he said to me with a very faint voice," Willy, I have little to leave you, but if I had heaps of golden money, I could not leave you any thing of such real value as this one book. I pray that God may give you grace to know its value. I fell asleep, and when I awoke I found myself in my own little bed. It was then morning, and I was an orphan. I remember another circumstance at that time, within two days after my Father's death; I was very disobedient to my poor Mother, and after trying for some time to make me mind her, she took me by the hand and led me upstairs. She unlocked the door of a chamber, and we entered. She gently lifted up a sheet which covered something that stood in a corner of the room; but ere she could speak, she burst into tears and sat down, covering her face with both her hands. knew not why, but my passion had now passed away, I stood beside my Mother without moving or speaking. Slowly she recovered her composure, and then, taking me in her arms, she again approached my Father's coffin. "Listen to me," she said, with a very low, firm voice, "You must learn to conquer your own passions, you have no earthly Father now, your dear Father has left this world. This is all we can see of him. He has prayed for you, and I hope that you and I may be with him again when our bodies are as cold and as changed as this. You will, I hope, grow up to

B

I

but