’My dearest Sophy,—­Your letter with the deep black border was the first that I opened, with trembling hand, thinking:  “Is it dear dear Uncle gone to his eternal rest; or dear Aunty? not that dear child, may God grant; for that would somehow seem to all most bitter of all--less, so to speak, reasonable and natural.”  And he is really gone; that dear, loving, courageous, warm-hearted servant of Christ; the desire of our eyes taken away with a stroke.  I read your letter wondering that I was not upset, knelt down and said the two prayers in the Burial Service, and then came the tears; for the memory of him rose up very vividly before me, and his deep love for me and the notes of comfort and encouragement he used to write were very fresh in my mind.  I looked at the print of him, the one he sent out to me, with “your loving old Uncle” in pencil on it.  I have all his letters:  when making a regular clearance some months ago, I could not tear up his, although dangerous ones for me to read unless used as a stimulant to become what he thought me.  His “Jacob” sermon in his own handwriting, I have by me.  But more than all, the memory of his holy life, and his example as a minister of Christ, have been left behind for us as a sweet, undying fragrance; his manner in the sick-room—­I see him now, and hear that soft, steady, clear voice repeating verses over my dear mother’s death-bed; his kindly, loving ways to his poor people; his voice and look in the pulpit, never to be forgotten.  I knew I should never see him again in this world.  May God of His mercy take me to be with him hereafter.

’Thank you, dear Sophy, for writing to me; every word about him is precious, from his last letter to me:—­

’"You will believe how sweet it is to me every month now to give the Holy Eucharist to my three dear ones.”

’"All complaints of old men must be serious.”

’I wish I had more time to write, but I am too busy in the midst of school, and printing Scripture histories and private prayers, and translations in Nengone, Bauro, Lifu; and as all my time out of school is spent in working in the printing office, I really have not a minute unoccupied.  With one exception, I have scarcely ever taken an hour’s walk for some six weeks.  A large proportion of the printing is actually set up by my own fingers; but now one Nengone lad, the flower of my flock, can help me much—­a young man about seventeen or eighteen, of whom I hope very much—­Malo, baptized by the name of Harper, an excellent young man, and a great comfort to me.  He was setting up in type a part of the little book of private prayers I am now printing for them.  I had just pointed out to him the translation of what would be in English—­“It is good that a man as he lies down to sleep should remember that that night he may hear the summons of the Angel of God; so then let him think of his death, and remember the words of St. Paul:  ‘Awake, thou that sleepest,’” etc.; when in came the man whom the Archdeacon left in charge here with my letters.  “I hope, sir, there is no bad news for you;” and my eye lighted on the deep black border of your envelope.