's death had laid hold upon his very soul, and there seemed so much
more of sadness and tenderness than on his former visit, when he had
enjoyed her bright companionship. On one occasion, referring to a
medical missionary who had brought his wife home from China hopelessly
ill, and who was expecting the end, he said: "Eh, man, he little knows
the _terrible_ dark valley he has to come through, and if Christ is not
with him he will be undone!" He spoke the words as though he were again
going through his own agony, and then added: "But if Christ is with him
he will come out of it with victory, and Christ will be dearer. But he
has _no_ idea what he has to face, though he thinks he has."

'He had looked forward to spending part of his time with his sons at
Millport, where he had spent June and July 1883 with his wife and boys
on his former visit. So we went there for a month, and they had a good
time boating, and walking, and reviving old memories of the happy home
circle. The thought of reunion was always made prominent. The boys must
ever remember his earnest efforts to lead their thoughts heavenward, and
they do think of heaven as a very real place.

'While at Millport he spent several nights in pasting up texts on every
place likely to catch the eye; on stones and gateways and fences all
round the island. He felt he must work while time was granted to him. I
had noticed him making paste, but thought nothing of it. I had heard the
sound of a softly closing door at midnight, but thought it must be
fancy. It had gone to my heart to feel his icy cold hand when he gave me
his morning greeting. I noticed the little texts pasted up, but never
thought of them as his work till the next day, when he began to make
more paste, and then the whole thing came to me like a flash. I begged
him with tears not to go out in the cold night air, and said that I knew
God would rather have him stay in his warm comfortable bed and get well
and strong. He answered so kindly: "Sister, it pains me to grieve you."
But he finished his work nevertheless.

'He was always wonderfully considerate, and grateful for any attention.
Sometimes, when he saw me unusually tired, he would go and get an extra
pillow and make me rest on the sofa, or when we came to the table he
would place me in a comfortable chair and pour out the tea himself, or
he would say: "Sister, take a cup yourself first, then you will be able
to help us."

'On the day before he left us