June 30th.—­Another great mercy.  A letter from N. P. W. [9] Under date of June 4th, I wrote, “May God bless,” etc., and God has blessed him.  Oh, praise, praise to Him who hears even before we ask.

April 26, 1861.—­“Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.”  Oh, how many thousand times do I repeat this line during the sleepless hours of my wretched nights!

As the year advanced, the entries became fewer and fewer; some of them, by reason of extreme weakness and suffering, having been left unfinished.  But no weakness or suffering could wholly repress her love of Nature.  Imprisoned within the same pages that record her nights and days of anguish are exquisite bits of fern, delicate mosses, rose-leaves, and other flowers pressed and placed there by her own hand.  But far more touching than these mementoes of her love of Nature are the passages in this diary of her last year on earth, that express her love to Christ and testify to His presence and supporting grace in what she describes as “the fathomless abyss of misery” in which she was plunged.  They remind one of the tints of unearthly light and beauty that adorn sometimes the face of a thundercloud.  They are such as the following: 

June 11, 1861.—­Blessed be God for comfort.  I see my sins all gone—­all set down to Christ’s account; and not only so, but—­oh, wonder!—­all His merits transferred to me.  Well may it be said, “Let us come boldly to the throne of grace.”  Why not be bold with such—­just like presenting an order at a bank.

Nov. 6th.—­Come, O come, dear Lord Jesus!  Come to this town, this church, this family, and oh, come to this poor longing famished heart.

Sunday, Nov. 10th.—­A better night and some peace of mind.  But O my Saviour, support me; let not the fiery billows swallow me up!  And O let me not fail to be thankful for the mercies mingled in my cup of suffering—­a pleasant room adorned with gifts of love from absent friends, and just now with beautiful mosses brought from the woods by my dear husband.

The next entry contains directions respecting parting gifts to be sent to her sister and other absent friends after her death.  Then comes the last entry, which is as follows: 

“I need not be afraid to ask to be—­first, ’holy and without blame before Him in love’; second, ‘filled with all the fullness of God’; third—.”

Here her pen dropped from her hand, and a little later her wearisome pilgrimage was over, and she entered into the saint’s everlasting rest.

* * * * *

Further extracts from her literary journal: