fever which terminated her existence on the 24th of October, 1826.

At the time of her death Mr. Judson was absent from home, in company with
Mr. Crawford, the British commissioner. Her sickness was short and painful.
During most of the time her reason was dethroned; but in her moments of
calmness she gave evidence that all was peace. Without the hand of her kind
companion to lift her aching head, or bathe her throbbing temples, she
died.

Mr. Judson returned, not to hear her voice, not to gaze upon her form, but
to weep over her grave, and with his motherless child to sit in sorrow on
the spot where she breathed her last. Such was the violence of her fever
that she said but little, and left her husband without many of those tokens
of kindness which surviving friends esteem of so much value.

They buried her at Amherst, under the shadow of a lofty hopia tree; and in
that lonely grave her form now reposes, heedless of what is passing on the
earth. Her child, which died shortly after she was buried, is laid by her
side; and on the sacred spot the traveller often pauses to think of one of
the most devoted and self-sacrificing women whose names have been mentioned
with gratitude by the virtuous and the good. A marble slab, presented
by the ladies of America, marks the grave, and points it out to every
stranger. On that slab is an inscription, a copy of which is on the
opposite page.

Here we pause. Such labors, such self-sacrifice, such sufferings need no
tongue to speak their merits. The worth of Mrs. Judson is engraved upon the
hearts of all who claim the Christian character. For her works' sake she is
beloved; and as long as the church endures, she will be remembered by all
its members. Like Mrs. Newell, her fame belongs