voices sung the sweet and tender hymn,--

"So fades the lovely, blooming flower,
Frail, smiling solace of an hour;
So soon our transient comforts fly,
And pleasures only bloom to die."

Soon after the death of her babe, Mrs. Newell discovered symptoms of the
malady which soon carried her to an untimely grave. From the first, she had
no hope of recovery. Several of her friends had died of the same disease;
and when it fastened itself upon her system, she knew that her time had
come. The slow, wasting consumption was on her frame, and her days
were nearly run out. But the approach of death she viewed with perfect
composure. Though far from home, far from all the endeared scenes of youth,
from the roof which sheltered her in infancy, from the mother whose gentle
hand guided her up to womanhood, she was tranquil. Death was only a dark
shadow, which retreated before her as she advanced, and left her standing
in the light of a cloudless day.

While on her dying pillow she read through the book of Job, and derived
from its hallowed counsels much divine support and comfort. While
contemplating the sufferings of that godly man, her own trials dwindled
away, and she lost sight of her own anguish in the deeper woes, of another.
Often did she ask, as she remembered what others had endured and thought
what trials some had experienced,--

"Shall I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize,
And sailed through bloody seas?"