"Well, my dear Miss Willoughby, how is your mother this morning," said
a venerable looking clergyman as he pressed the hand of a fair young
girl, apparently, not more than eighteen. Her face was pale with
watching, and her eyes were red with weeping, and though she seemed in
deep distress, there was a subdued and resigned manner about her, as
she replied:

"Not any better, sir, I fear; she has had a very bad night, her cough
has been so very troublesome." Saying this, she opened a door which
led to an inner apartment, into which Mr. Montgomery entered, and
approached the bed, followed by the afflicted daughter, who now tried
to assume a composure of manner, very foreign to her feelings, as
faintly smiling, she exclaimed, "Here, dear mamma, is our kind friend
again." The poor sufferer looked anxiously at him. Her attenuated
frame and sharpened features told the sad tale, that consumption had
done its work, and the hand of death was upon her.

"Well, my dear madam," said the good pastor, "I will not ask if you
are better; I will only hope the same spirit of resignation to the
Divine Will fills your mind as when I left you, yesterday. Remember in
_whom_ you trust, and for _whom_. There are never-failing promises
recorded there," pointing to a Bible that lay on the bed, "and thrice
happy are they who can rely on them in affliction's hour. I have read
them to you, and your own eye, you tell me, has often rested on them;
you have only, therefore, to 'commit your way unto the Lord, and he
shall bring it to pass.'"

"Oh, yes," replied the suffering woman, in a feeble tone, "I know it
all; I know He is able and willing to take care of my hapless