come
to regard us as her natural guardians, and we had come to look on her as
one of our family. The second time she left us she caught a fever, and
returned to us in hopes that in her old and quiet home she would soon be
well again. We procured her medical aid, but the fever got worse. The
doctor lost hopes, and it soon began to be evident, that she was doomed
to a speedy death. I attended her during the last sad night of her
sufferings. I heard her moanings as her life drew slowly towards a
close. I wanted to comfort her, but I had lost the power. I could once
have spoken to her of a Father in heaven, and of a better world; but I
could speak on those subjects no longer. I could once have kneeled by
her side and prayed; but I could pray no more. I could neither comfort
myself nor my dying charge. She passed away without a word of
consolation or a whisper of hope to cheer her as she trod the dark
valley of the shadow of death. I stood by, afflicted and comfortless,
when her lifeless form was committed to its final resting-place, unable
to speak a word of hope or consolation to the sorrowing minds that were
gathered around her grave. She was interred on the slope of the hill, on
the opposite side of the stream over against my farm, within view of the
field and the garden in which I often worked, and the lonely dwelling in
which I frequently slept. And there she lay, far from her kindred and
her native land, the wild winds moaning over her solitary grave, and no
sweet word about God, or Christ, or a better life, to mark the spot
where she slept. And there, on that quiet farm, and in that solitary
dwelling, with that one melancholy grave in view, I passed at times the
long sad days, and the still and solemn nights, in utter loneliness,
gazing on the desolate scenes around, or feeding on saddening thoughts
within, "without hope and without God in the world." I sought for
comfort in a Godless and Christless philosophy, but sought in vain. I
tried to extort from nature some word of consolation, but not a whisper
could I obtain. I tried to forge some theory of my own that might lessen
the gloom in which I was wrapt; but my efforts were fruitless. The light
of life was quenched; the joy, the bliss of being was no more. I had
"forsaken the fountain of living waters," and nothing remained but
broken cisterns that could hold no water. I was wretched; and, apart
from God, and Christ, and immortality, my wretchedness was incurable;