I have painful news to tell you—­news that I am sure will make your hearts ache; but I hope our heavenly Father will help you to bear it.  Your dear papa is very, very ill indeed; so much so that the best judges fear that he will never be any better.  He began to fail about five months ago, and has declined so gradually that we were not fully aware of his danger until lately; but within a few weeks those who love him have become very much alarmed.

In January we went down to Mergui by the steamer, and when we returned, thought he was a little better, but he soon failed again.  We spent a month at Amherst, but he received little if any benefit.  Next, the doctors pronounced our house (the one you used to live in) unhealthy, and we moved to another.  But all was of no use.  Your dear papa continued to fail, till suddenly, one evening, his muscular strength gave way and he was prostrated on the bed, unable to help himself.  This occurred about two weeks ago.  The doctor now became alarmed, and said the only hope for him was in a long voyage.  It was very hard to think of such a thing in his reduced state, particularly as I could not go with him; but after we had wept and prayed over it one day and night, we concluded that it was our duty to use the only means which God had left us, however painful.

We immediately engaged his passage on board a French barque, bound for the Isle of Bourbon; but before it sailed he had become so very low that no one thought it right for him to go alone.  They therefore called a meeting of the mission and appointed Mr. Ranney.  It was a great relief to me, for he is a very kind man, and loves your dear papa very much; and he will do everything that can be done for his comfort.  The officers of the vessel too, seemed greatly interested for him, as did every one else.  He was carried on board a week ago yesterday, in a litter, and placed on a nice easy cot made purposely for him.  I stayed with him all day, and at dark came home to stay with the children.

The next day found that the vessel had only dropped down a little distance, and so I took a boat and followed.  I expected this would certainly be the last day with him, but it was not.  On Friday I went again, and though he did not appear as well as on the previous days, I was forced to take, as I then supposed, a final leave of him.  But when morning came, I felt as though I could not live through the day without knowing how he was.  So I took a boat again, and reached the vessel about 2 o’clock P.M.  He could only speak in whispers, but seemed very glad that I came.  The natives I had sent to fan him till he should get out of the river, came to me and begged to have him taken on shore again:  and so small was my hope of his recovery, that my heart pleaded on their side, though I still thought it a duty to do as the doctor had ordered.  I came away at dark, and though his lips moved