“Then it is your wish to recover?” I inquired.  “If it should be the will of God, yes.  I should like to complete the dictionary, on which I have bestowed so much labor, now that it is so nearly done; for though it has not been a work that pleased my taste, or quite satisfied my feelings, I have never underrated its importance.  Then after that come all the plans we have formed.  Oh, I feel as though only just beginning to be prepared for usefulness.”

“It is the opinion of most of the mission,” I remarked, “that you will not recover.”  “I know it is,” he replied; “and I suppose they think me an old man, and imagine that it is nothing for one like me to resign a life so full of trials.  But I am not old—­at least in that sense—­you know I am not.  Oh! no man ever left this world with more inviting prospects, with brighter hopes or warmer feelings—­warmer feelings”—­he repeated, and burst into tears.  His face was perfectly placid, even while the tears broke away from the closed lids, and rolled, one after another, down to the pillow.  There was no trace of agitation or pain in his manner of weeping, but it was evidently the result of acute sensibilities, combined with great physical weakness.  To some suggestions which I ventured to make, he replied, “It is not that—­I know all that, and feel it in my inmost heart.  Lying here on my bed, when I could not talk, I have had such views of the loving condescension of Christ, and the glories of heaven, as I believe are seldom granted to mortal man.  It is not because I shrink from death, that I wish to live; neither is it because the ties that bind me here though some of them are very sweet, bear any comparison with the drawings I at times feel towards heaven; but a few years would not be missed from my eternity of bliss, and I can well afford to spare them, both for your sake and for the sake of the poor Burmans.  I am not tired of my work, neither am I tired of the world; yet when Christ calls me home.  I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from his school.  Perhaps I feel something like the young bride, when she contemplates resigning the pleasant associations of her childhood, for a yet dearer home—­though only a very little like her—­for there is no doubt resting on my future.”  “Then death would not take you by surprise,” I remarked, “if it should come even before you could get on board ship.”  “Oh, no,” he said, “death will never take me by surprise—­do not be afraid of that—­I feel so strong in Christ.  He has not led me so tenderly thus far, to forsake me at the very gate of heaven.  No, no; I am willing to live a few years longer, if it should be so ordered; and if otherwise, I am willing and glad to die now.  I leave myself entirely in the hands of God, to be disposed of according to his holy will.”