he had long had greatly at heart, and he reluctantly consented to go.  Leaving Mrs. Judson and her infant daughter in the house of the civil superintendent at Amherst, he proceeded to the Burman capital.  The journey was every way unfortunate; attended with long delays, and in its result, as far as Mr. Judson was concerned, quite unsuccessful.  But it was chiefly disastrous because it detained him from the sick and dying bed of that devoted wife to whom he was bound by every tie that can attach human hearts to each other; and compelled her to end her troubled pilgrimage alone.  That God who “moves in a mysterious way,” had ordered it that she who had lived through appalling dangers and threatening deaths until her mission of love toward those she had cherished so fondly was accomplished, was—­now that her trials seemed nearly ended, and the hopes of her heart seemingly in a train of accomplishment—­suddenly called from the scene of her labors to that of her “exceeding great reward.”  It was as if a noble ship after encountering storms and tempests, after being often nearly wrecked, and as often saved almost by miracle, should when already in port and in sight of anxious spectators, suddenly sink forever.

In a letter to the corresponding secretary, dated Ava, Dec. 7, 1826, Mr. Judson writes:  “The news of the death of my beloved wife, has not only thrown a gloom over all my future prospects, but has forever embittered the recollection of the present journey, in consequence of which I have been absent from her dying bed, and prevented from affording the spiritual comfort which her lonely circumstances peculiarly required, and of contributing to avert the fatal catastrophe, which has deprived me of one of the first of women, and best of wives.  I commend myself and motherless child to your sympathy and prayers.”

From a letter from Mr. Judson to Mrs. Hasseltine we learn, that when he parted from his wife, she was in good health and comfortably situated, with happy prospects of a new field of missionary labor, and the expectation of seeing her husband again in three or four months at farthest.  His last letter from her was dated the 14th of September.  She says, “I have this day moved into the new house, and for the first time since we were broken up at Ava, feel myself at home.  The house is large and convenient, and if you were here I should feel quite happy....  Poor little Maria is still feeble....  When I ask her where Papa is, she always starts up and points toward the sea.  The servants behave very well, and I have no trouble about anything except you and Maria.  Pray take care of yourself....  May God preserve and bless you, and restore you again to your new and old home is the prayer of your affectionate Ann.”  Another letter from a friend confirmed the statement with regard to his wife’s health, though it spoke unfavorably of that of the child.  “But,” continues Mr. Judson, “my next communication was a letter with a black seal,