’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.  To illustrate this, I have mentioned several of the incidents already related.

She spoke of a young friend, who has much that the world gives its votaries to enhance her prospects in this life.  I said, “Would you exchange conditions with her?” “Not for ten thousand worlds,” was her energetic reply.  “No!” she added; “I fear she has not chosen the good part.”

Sabbath afternoon, the mortal conflict was upon her.  The restlessness of death, the craving for some change of posture, the cold sweats, the labored respiration, all had the effect merely to make her ask, “How long do you think I must suffer?” That labored breathing tired her; she wished that I could regulate it for her.  “How long,” said she, “will it probably continue?”

I told her that heaven was a free gift at the last as well as at first; that we could not pass within the gate at will, but must wait God’s time; that there were sufferings yet necessary to her complete preparation for heaven, of which she would see the use hereafter, but not now.  This made her wholly quiet; and after that she rode at anchor many hours, hard by the inner lighthouse, waiting for the Pilot.

The last words which she uttered to me, an hour before she died, were, “I am going to get my crown.”  I wondered at her in my thoughts, (O, help my unbelief!) to hear a dying sinner so confident.  I said to myself, “O woman, great is thy faith.”  She knew that her crown was a free gift, purchased at infinite expense; a crown, instead of deserved chains, under darkness.  All unmerited, and more than forfeited, yet she spoke of her crown, because she believed with a simple faith, taking Christ at his word, and being willing to receive rewards and honors from him without projecting her own sense of unworthiness to stay the