hushed, she said, "I shall sing in heaven." Her voice had been the charm
of many a pleasant circle. But she added, "I shall no more sing--

'I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger;
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night.'"

And in a moment she added,--

"Of that country to which I am going,
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light."

"Some people," she said, "wish to die in order to get rid of pain. What
a motive! I am afraid that sometimes they get rid of it only to renew
it. There was--" And here she checked herself, saying, "But I will not
mention any name," a feeling of charitableness and tenderness coming
over her, as though she might be thought to have judged a dying person
harshly.

The day before she died, as I was spending the Sabbath forenoon by her,
she breathed out these words:--

"O, how soft that bed must be,
Made in sickness, Lord, by thee!
And that rest, how soft and sweet,
Where Jesus and the sufferer meet!"

In almost the same breath, she said, "O, see that beautiful
yellow,"--directing my attention to a sprig of acacia in a bunch of
flowers; all showing that her religious feelings were not raptures, but
flowed along upon a level with her natural delight at beautiful objects.