and with a few days of sunshine, came a wish to live and enjoy "the pretty world without pain." To her spiritual mind this feeling appeared sinful; her desire had been "to depart and be with Christ," and she felt it ungrateful to Him who had so loved her as to give Himself for her, when she lingered in spirit at a distance from Him. Her last letter was written to me a month before she died, and in it she refers to this transient feeling of earthliness. Her sister had removed from the country village to the town of Frome.

HONOURED AND DEAR MADAM,

Feb., 1840.

I am sorry that I have not been able to write to you before. I feel anxious to write now, as, dear madam, I am sinking fast, and soon, I hope, if it be my Father's will, He will release me of this body of clay, and receive me to Himself. I feel thankful to be able to say that, though the Lord had hid His face from me for a time, yet, blessed be His holy name, He is nearer and dearer to my soul than ever-increasing my faith for that hour when I shall be called to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. Dear madam, never did I feel the need of kind friends to read and pray by me, so much as now. Mr. Sheppard came to see

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me, and prayed with me, and it seemed like pouring water on thirsty ground: the visiting lady is very, very kind-she comes twice a week—and the dear district minister. Dear madam, I thought of you on the New Year's morning; and, though absent from you, I did pray for you and your household, that you may be blessed to them. If this should be the last time that this poor trembling hand scribbles to you, I hope it leaves me with a humble and truly thankful heart, for the past and present kindness I have received from you and my dear master. I am very happy to tell you of the tender kindness of my brother and sister; and we are very comfortable in our new house. There is one sweet hymn in the "Gems of Sacred Poetry" (No. 60) that I long to be like; and sometimes I can feel, "O sweet pain, it's good." God's mercies often lift up this poor body past its pain.

I remain your humble servant,

HESTER.

This was the last letter that the poor trembling hand scribbled to me; but in consequence of the change of residence, Mrs. Sheppard was able to see her occasionally, and she wrote about this time,

"I sat with Hester some time the other day; she cannot be worse I think: her sight has failed her, and she cannot read at all. She said, in her simple, childlike way, 'Do you know, ma'am, I've the most beau

tiful stars and bright birds flying and falling before my eyes: they seem so real that sometimes I feel in my bosom to see if they are not really there."

At last the time came when she was to see Him, who was to her "the chiefest among ten thousand, the altogether lovely;" and Mrs. Sheppard writes, "Our happy little Hester has winged her way to Jesus's bosom; she had been very ill all the week, her sufferings almost more than human nature could bear; yet her sister Lucy says that her face the last three days was as the face of an angel; it seemed as if her sweet smiles were caused by visions of angels round the room. A friend, who was with her a few hours before she died, asked her if she was happy. She said, "Yes, I have no fear at all, though I have to struggle hard with pain and death." At times her feeble nature seemed to faint at the glory that was dawning upon her. Her kind sister wept as she supported her dying body; she observed her weeping, and said "No tears here, no tears here. I'm going to Christ, my Lord; sing, sing;" and, with her dying breath, she sang a verse of some

favourite hymn. Her last words were "Lord Jesus, receive me:" she lifted her hands and eyes with a smile towards heaven, fell back on her pillow-and expired.

"Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on His breast I lay my head,

And breathe my soul out sweetly there."

Such was the happy end of dear, loving, simple Hester! Though the earthly hands. she most dearly loved were not near to smooth her pillow, "His left hand was under her head, and His right hand embraced her." She lies in the churchyard of Christchurch, Frome; a headstone marks the spot, and tells the passenger that underneath lies

Y friend, have you ever read with care the story of blind Bartimeus? If

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not, take down your Bible from the shelf, and turn to the tenth chapter of St. Mark's Gospel, and at the forty-sixth verse you will find the sweet story.

Jesus, the friend of sinners, who went about doing good, was on His last journey when He met with this poor blind man. Those kind and merciful hands, so often raised in pity to cure the blind, the sick, the lame, were in a few days to be stretched upon a cross of wood, and their flesh and sinews torn by the large nails that pierced and fastened them. But Jesus, though He knew all that He was going to endure, had "steadfastly