of her manners. faultless, her mind was equally so. It was not so fully developed, as to its strength, at so early a period as that of her sister. Her constitution and health being delicate, she was prevented from applying herself so much to study. Nature had made her in the finest and purest mould, and rendered her capable of becoming all that was lovely in woman. She was all smiles and affection to those around her. Her happiness consisted in making others so. In the words of a celebrated writer, 'she was one of those who seemed gifted with the marvellous touch that opens the fountains of affection in every nature, that elicits harmony from the coarsest and most discordant instruments; and the faces of both old and young were lighted up at her approach, as if they had been touched by the wing of an angel.""

If her external beauty was

Thus happy in the admiration and love of all who knew her, she was far from being vain of this distinction. She was humble, and ready to acknowledge herself, in the sight of God, a sinner. In a little, affectionate note which she wrote not long before her last sickness, and

laid in her mother's work-basket, she laments the possession of a "sinful heart," and begs with the greatest ingenuousness to be forgiven, if any error in conduct or manner might have given her parents pain. She was attentive to religious reading, and to her private devotions. The early instructions and pious example of her parents, seem to have been visibly blest to both their children.

It has already been mentioned that Henrietta endeavored to control her grief for the loss of her sister. But it took deep root within. It lay down and rose up with her. It led her wounded spirit to Him who alone could heal. It seemed to have been sanctified to her as a means of grace. In little pencilled notes like the following, she poured forth her emotions:

"God alone can comfort the broken heart;
Sweet, sweet sister."

So tenderly anxious was she not to increase her mother's sorrow, that after Margaret's death, she never shed a tear in her presence. On one of the days of deep maternal lamentation, she said, "Dear mother, you weep and mourn so much for Margaret, I fear God may

see fit to take father or myself from you." She seemed impressed with the belief that her own life would be short. An old African who had been employed many years on board one of her father's vessels, and was much attached to the children, called at the house. With her characteristic kindness, she went out and took a seat by him in the kitchen. As soon as the servant-girl, whom she sent to get him some refreshment, had left the room, she said in the most touching tones, "Oh, steward, my dear, dear sister has gone down to the grave. I shall certainly follow her soon." The sympathizing African, in relating it after her death, said, "She spoke very earnest indeed; but I did not think little mistress was to die so soon."

Sometimes the mourning of the bereaved child was too deep to admit the relief of tears. This affecting subject led her to write the ensuing note.

"MY DEAREST MOTHER-You perhaps think I am heartless, and do not feel for your loss, in God's taking our dear Margaret. But I am wrapt up in my own sorrow. There is much comfort, dear mother, if we will only look to

that God who promises so much, if we will put our trust in him. I think the twenty-third Psalm is a very beautiful one.

my shepherd; I shall not want.

me to lie down in green pastures. me beside the still waters.'

"The Lord is

Your

He maketh

He leadeth

"HENRIETTA."

A short letter to a little friend in Springfield expresses her feelings still more freely.

"I have lost my only and dearly beloved sister. But I did not prize her enough. Caroline, you are happy; you have brothers and sisters. I have none. It will be but a short time ere I too shall be laid in the grave. I feel as though all I had to do, was to prepare for another and a better world."

The last Sabbath but one on which she was able to attend divine service, she went with a friend to the Methodist Episcopal church, in her immediate neighborhood. The text of the Rev. Mr. Remington, who at that time officiated there, was the exclamation of the psalmist, "My heart is fixed; Oh God, my heart is fixed." She was much impressed with this passage, and with the solemnity of the sermon.

Often, as she approached the close of life, would she utter, in the most devout and affecting manner, "My heart is fixed. Oh God, my heart is fixed.”

It was the will of the Almighty that she should not long be divided from her loved sister. In a few weeks she began to droop, and never more lifted up her head in health. After the confinement of sickness settled upon her, she seemed still more painfully to miss her bosom-companion. She would sit for hours, with the deepest sorrow depicted on her countenance. Then, as if she was scarcely conscious that her thoughts had broke forth in words, would exclaim,

"I have no sister to play to me on the piano, no sister to sleep by my side."

Books of a consoling tendency, especially those relative to the deaths of children, were sent by kind friends to her parents, with the hope that they might mitigate their sorrow. She also attentively perused them, and would sometimes say, with a look of disappointment, "I find nothing addressed to poor afflicted sisters."