The last letter she ever wrote was about three weeks before her death, to her father, who was absent on a voyage to Boston. Though characterized by an unstudied simplicity, it cannot but be interesting, as the last written effusion of that susceptible and gentle being.

"HARTFORD, March 27, 1834.

"MY DEAR FATHER-We felt rather sad the day that and the more so, as I was

left you

us,

taken ill with bleeding at the nose, losing that noon, and the next morning at four o'clock, three pints and a half of blood. Mother feels very much depressed, indeed. Yet I trust, my dear father, that God will bind up our broken hearts, and heal the wounds which, in his mercy, he has seen fit to inflict.

"The Rev. Mr. Wheaton has called twice. Our friends are very kind to us. But we want to see you, more than tongue can tell. My constant prayers, both morning and night, are, that you may have a safe voyage, and return to us in health and peace.

"From your truly affectionate daughter,

"HENRIETTA

"BOSTON, April 2, 1834.

"MY DEAR HENRIETTA-Your letter came safe to hand, and I could not but be much grieved that my darling should have so suffered. I hope you are much better ere this. You say, my dear, that your mother is much distressed. So am I, my child. But the confidence you have expressed in Him who bindeth up the broken-hearted, is most comforting and consoling to your father. May this, your pious trust, increase and strengthen, until your desires are fulfilled.

"My dear little creature, I am glad you have written me such a good letter. May your prayers be answered, that I may have a safe and short passage home, for I long to embrace you. God bless you, my child."

We linger among the vestiges of this affectionate intercourse of parent and child, as if we would fain avoid the approach of the scenes which were so soon to terminate it. The strength of the gentle Henrietta rapidly failed. Not long before her departure, her mother, on entering her room of sickness, found her rising from her knees, not without difficulty. She

had been communing in the solitude of her apartment with Him who said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not."

The following scene, which took place about a fortnight before her death, is thus related by the mother.

"We were sitting alone, towards the close of the day, conversing upon indifferent subjects, for I did not allow myself, on account of her weak state, to say much of our beloved Margaret, though her mind was perfectly composed and placid. Suddenly she closed her eyes, and a beautiful, heavenly expression overspread her countenance. It grew brighter and brighter, into a smile of rapture which I cannot attempt to describe. It is no exaggeration to say, that to me she looked angelic. Though her eyes continued closed, I knew she was not asleep, and looked steadfastly at her for the space of ten minutes, or more. She then opened her eyes, and in the most solemn manner, laying her hand upon mine, said, 'Mother, I have seen Margaret. And Oh, she is the most beautiful being I ever beheld. No gold nor diamonds,

neither sun, moon, or stars can compare with her beauty. And she told me she was perfectly happy. Oh, my mother, could you see her glory and happiness, you would never shed a tear for her. But I am afraid you will not believe me. Perhaps you think it is the state of my health, or mind. Do, do believe me, dearest mother. Don't you see that I am entirely rational?'

"I was much struck by her manner and words, and had no doubt that she was perfectly herself. Still, I thought I would question her closely, and inquired if she could describe the dress of her dear sister.

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"No, no; it was too dazzling. Oh, her beauty, her beauty! And she said she was perfectly happy.' This seemed to be all she was permitted to know. What I have here related may by some be imputed to an excited, or wandering state of mind. But the mind of my child was perfectly calm and tranquil, and uninfluenced by the effects of medicine, she having taken none of any kind for more than a week. I felt a conviction that by a compassionate Saviour, she was permitted to have this

remarkable view of things to us unseen, to sustain and cheer her through that dark valley she was so soon to enter. So I felt at the moment of her departure, and said, 'My dear one, you are going to that blessed, happy sister." And though she was speechless, I have reason to think, from the expression of her eye and countenance, that she was comforted thereby."

Her whole sickness was one of marked, and sometimes extreme suffering. Her only remaining earthly desire was to see her dear father. On his arrival from Boston, he found her exceedingly feeble. It would seem that her loving spirit had lingered to look upon him ere it passed away. He desired to watch with her throughout the night. After arranging every thing for her comfort, and pressing on her lips the paternal kiss, he sat down beside her. After a little time, she attempted to raise herself, and said, "Don't leave me, dear father." These were the last words she ever spoke. After a short slumber, she again awoke, but was unable to utter a word. Still, her intellect was clear, and she would often greet those around her bed with that pleasant and peculiar