ecidedly religious character. "Mamma," said she one day,
"should God spare my life, my time and talents shall, for the
future, be devoted to a higher and holier end." "O mother, how
sadly have I trifled with the gifts of Heaven! What have I done
which can benefit one human being?" The New Testament was now her
daily study, and a portion of each day was devoted to private prayer
and self-examination.

The closing scene of her life, which occurred on the 25th November,
1838, would lose much of its interest in the description, if given in
other than the beautiful and touching language of her mother. It was
night, and, at the entreaty of her husband, Mrs. Davidson had laid
herself on the bed in a room adjoining that of her daughter. "Between
three and four o'clock, the friend who watched came again, and said,
'Margaret has asked for her mother.' I flew. She held a bottle of
ether in her hand, and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head
and chest. She revived. 'I am better now,' said she. 'Mother, you
tremble; you are cold; put on your clothes.' I stepped to the fire,
and put on a wrapper, when she stretched out both her arms, and
exclaimed, 'Mother, take me in your arms.' I raised her, and, seating
myself on the bed, passed both my arms around her waist; her head
dropped on my bosom, and her expressive eyes were raised to mine.
That look I never shall forget; it said, 'Tell me, mother, is this
death?' I answered the appeal as if she had spoken. I laid my hand
upon her white brow; a cold dew had gathered there. I spoke--'Yes, my
beloved, it is almost finished; you will soon be with Jesus.' She gave
one more look, two or three short, fluttering breaths, and all was
over; her spirit was with its God: not a struggle or a groan preceded
her departure."

Thus perished Margaret Davidson, at the early age of fifteen years and
eight months. Her sister Lucretia had found in Miss Sedgwick a fitting
biographer, and the memory of Margaret has been rendered more dear by
the touching manner in which Irving has told her brief but wondrous
story. We cannot better close our imperfect sketch, than to use the
words of her biographer: "We shall not pretend to comment on these
records; they need no comment, and they admit no heightening. Indeed,
the farther we have proceeded with our subject, the more has the
intellectual beauty and the seraphic purity of the little being we
have endeavored to commemorate, broken upon us. To use one of