the last three weeks," she replied.

"I took a bad

cold which settled on my lungs, and after coughing about a week I began to raise blood."

"Is your cough very troublesome ?" I inquired. "Yes ma'am, my side and breast are very sore and painful. I sleep but poorly, and sometimes think I never shall be any better."

"I called here a month ago and left a tract with your mother, have you read it?"

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"O yes, ma'am, again and again," said she eagerly; "O how glad I am to see you, I did not think of your being that lady."

"Your mother told me something of your state of mind, which interested me very much, and led me to hope you were seeking the salvation of your soul."

"I have been very much troubled in my mind for a long time," she replied. "I did not say any thing about it as long as I could keep it to myself; but the thought that I am a sinner, and at any time might die, seemed to fill my mind by day so that I could not work, and by night so that I could not sleep. Mother saw that something troubled me, and when she asked me I told her; but she said I was notional and tried to comfort me; but the thought, I'm a sinner, a guilty sinner,' was like a voice in my ear wherever I went. I knew of no

one to speak to, for I did not feel freedom to go to the minister. When mother told me you had been here and talked about religion, I could not help crying, I felt so disappointed that I did not see you."

She was here interrupted by a violent turn of coughing. After she was quiet, I said to her, "did you find an answer to the question, What shall I do to be saved?' in the tract I left you?"

"I think I did, ma'am," she replied, "my mind has felt more composed since I read it, but I am very ignorant on all religious subjects, and know but little of the Bible. I read it a great deal, but there are so many things that I cannot understand, that I feel almost discouraged."

"But you can understand that you are a poor, helpless sinner," said I, "and that Jesus died on the cross to save you from your sins. You know that you must be sorry for your past life of sin, and believe that Christ is willing and able to pardon you and take you to heaven."

"Yes ma'am, I do believe it, and I think I do trust in Him, and this is my only comfort, for I feel that I am never going to be healthy again, and my prayer is that I may not be taken from this world till I am by God's grace fitted for glory."

"Does your mother think you as ill as you seem to suppose yourself to be ?" I inquired.

"No ma'am, my poor mother will not hear to my saying that I am not going to be well. I wish, ma'am, if it is not too much to ask of you, that you would talk to her. She is very, very dear to me, and I cannot bear to see her so thoughtless about her soul's salvation."

I promised her that I would take some suitable time to converse with her mother, and as I had now sat a long time, I took my leave, after giving her another tract, and promising to call and see her again very soon.

I did not defer my visit long, for I was desirous to watch the progress of the growth of piety in the breast of Catharine White. The next time I called she was confined to her bed, and though but a week had passed since I had seen her, she had failed very much. She smiled as I approached her, and held out her hand to me, saying, "it is very kind in you to come so soon." In answer to my inquiries respecting her health, she replied, "I am much weaker than I was when you last saw me, my cough is very distressing and severe, and nightsweats reduce me fast.

"Can you say, 'my flesh and my heart faileth,

but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever?'"

66

"If I

"I think I can, ma'am," she replied. had not such hopes as these to sustain me in my present situation, I should be indeed miserable. Though I have been so feeble since I saw you last, I have never been so happy. Night after night, while labouring and panting for breath, my mind is tranquil and is kept in perfect peace, being stayed in God."

"Is your mind constantly in this happy frame," I asked. "Oh no, ma'am, sometimes after having felt as if I longed to be gone, so much so, that I think of the words, 'Oh that I had wings like a dove, then would I fly away and be at rest,' I begin to think what if I am deceiving myself? What if I am still an enemy to God? and then I am indeed a wretched being; but this is not often the case, for I can almost always trust in Him who I believe will finally give me the victory."

"I have brought you a small book of hymns, which I thought you might sometimes be pleased to read," said I, taking a little volume from my work-bag," and I think one of them is so applicable to your case, as you describe it sometimes to be, that if you wish I will read it."

"Thank you, ma'am," said she, "I shall be much obliged to you to do so."

I opened the book and read the following lines, entitled

STRONG AND WEAK FAITH.

Sometimes when faith is strong

And hopes of peace with God are firm and bright,
My spirit, almost ready for her flight,

Does for thy presence long.

I meditate with joy

Upon the bliss of heaven, that happy place,

When I shall see my Saviour "face to face,"
And praise be my employ.

"Tis then I joyful cry,

Come quickly, Lord, "and bear my soul away,
For in this world I would not always stay,
Take me to Thee on high."

But soon this frame is gone,

And earth with all its pleasures and its pain,
Takes full possession of my soul again,
And I am left to mourn.

When shall the warfare cease?

When shall the conflict in my soul be o'er ?
When shall I be in heaven and sin no more?

But dwell in perfect peace.