tor to such
subjects as were best calculated to comfort and strengthen him.

About day-break the next morning, this man of many virtues, after
struggling rather severely for two hours preceding his death, passed
into eternity, there to enjoy the recompense of a well-spent life.

When he was dead, the priest, who never left him during the night,
approached the bed, and after surveying his benevolent features, now
composed in the stillness of death, exclaimed--

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from their
labors, and their works do follow them!"

Having uttered the words aloud, he sat down beside the bed, buried his
face in his handkerchief, and wept.

He was now only a short day's journey from home, and as his presence, he
knew, would be rather a restraint upon a family so much in affliction,
he bade them farewell, and proceeded on his way. He travelled slowly,
and, as every well-known hill or lake appeared to him, his heart
beat quickly, his memory gave up its early stores, and his affections
prepared themselves for the trial that was before them.

"It is better for me not to arrive," thought he, "until the family
shall have returned from their daily labor, and are collected about the
hearth."

In the meantime, many an impression of profound and fervid piety
came over him, when he reflected upon the incontrovertible proofs of
providential protection and interference which had been, during his
absence from home, under his struggles, and, in his good fortune, so
clearly laid before him. "Deep," he exclaimed, "is the gratitude I owe
to God for this; may I never forget to acknowledge it!"

It was now about seven o'clock; the evening was calm, and the sun
shone with that clear amber light which gives warmth, and the power of
exciting tenderness to natural scenery. He had already gained the ascent
which commanded a view of the rich sweep of country that reposed below.
There it lay--his native home--his native parish--bathed in the light
and glory of the hour. Its fields were green--its rivers shining like
loosened silver; its meadows already studded with hay-cocks, its green
pastures covered with sheep, and its unruffled lakes reflecting the
hills under which they lay. Here and there a gentleman's residence rose
among the distant trees, and well did he recognize the church spire
that cut into the western sky on his right. It is true, nothing of the
grandeur and magnificence of nature was there