Her alarm.

Her increasing anxiety

know that I am not a Christian, and O if I die in this state of mind, what will become of me? What will become of me?" and she again burst into tears.

What could I say? Every word she said was true. Her eyes were opened to her danger.

There was cause for Delirium might soon

alarm. Sickness was upon her. ensue; death might be very near; and her soul was unprepared to appear before God. She saw it all; she felt it all. Fever was burning in her veins. But she forgot her pain, in view of the terrors of approaching judgment.

I told her that the Lord was good, and that his tender mercies were over all his works; that He was more ready to forgive than we to ask forgiveness.

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But, sir," said she, "I have known my duty long, and have not done it. I have been ashamed of the Savior, and grieved away the Spirit; and now I am upon a sick bed, and perhaps must die. O, if I were but a Christian I should be willing to die."

I told her of the Savior's love. I pointed to many of God's precious promises to the penitent. I endeavored to induce her to resign her soul calmly to the Savior. But all was unavailing. Trembling and agitated she was looking forward to the dark future. The Spirit of the Lord had opened her eyes, and through her own reflections had led her into this state of alarm. I knelt by her bedside and fervently prayed that the Holy Spirit would guide her to the truth, and that the Savior would speak peace to her troubled soul. O could they, who are postponing repentance to a sick bed, have witnessed the suffering of this once merry girl, they would shudder at the thought of trusting to a dying hour. How poor a time to prepare to meet God, when the mind is enfeebled, when the body is restless or racked with pain, and when mental agitation frustrates the skill of the physician. Yet so it is. One half the world are postponing repentance to a dying bed. And when sickness comes, the very circumstance of being

Death-bed repentance.

Increasing sickness, and mental suffering.

unprepared hurries the miserable victim to the grave.

The next day I called again to see Louisa. Her fever was still raging, and its fires were fanned by mental suffering. Poor girl! thought I, as the first glance of her countenance showed the strong lineaments of despair. I needed not to ask how she felt. Her countenance told her feelings. And I knew that while her mind was in this state, restoration to health was out of the question.

"And can you not, Louisa," said I, "trust your soul with the Savior who died for you? He has said, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

"O, sir, I know the Savior is merciful, but somehow or other I cannot go to him, I know not why-O, I am miserable indeed."

"Do you think, Louisa, that you are penitent for sin? If you are, you are forgiven; for God who gave his Son to die for us, is more ready to pardon than we to ask forgiveness. He is more ready to give good gifts to the penitent than any earthly parent to give bread to his hungry child."

I then opened the Bible at the 15th chapter of Luke, and read the parable of the prodigal son. I particularly directed her attention to the 20th verse: "When he was yet a great way off his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell upon his neck and kissed him.”

"O, sir," said she, "none of these promises are for me. I find no peace to my troubled spirit. I have long been sinning against God, and now he is summoning me to render up my account, and O! what an account have I to render! The doctor gives me medicine, but I feel that it does no good, for I can think of nothing but my poor soul. Even if I were perfectly well, I could hardly endure the view which God has given me of my sins. If they were forgiven, how happy should I be ! but now— O!"-her voice was stopped by a fit of shuddering, which

Louisa's despair.

Her advice to her young friends.

agitated those around her with the fear that she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves were more quiet, and I kneeled to commend her spirit to the Lord.

As I rode home, her despairing countenance was unceasingly before me. Her lamentations, her mournful groans, were continually crying in my ears. As I kneeled with my family at evening, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. All night I was restlessly upon my pillow dreaming of unavailing efforts at this sick bed.

Another morning came. As I knocked at the door of her dwelling I felt a most painful solicitude as to the answer I might receive.

"How is Louisa this morning?" said I to the person who opened the door.

"She is fast failing, sir, and the doctor thinks she cannot recover. We have just sent for her friends to come and see her before she dies."

"Is her mind more composed than it has been?”

"O no, sir. She has had a dreadful night. She says that she is lost, and that there is no hope for her."

I went into her chamber. Despair was pictured more deeply than ever upon her flushed and fevered countenance. I was surprised at the strength she still manifested as she tossed from side to side. Death was evidently drawing near. She knew it. She had lived without God, and felt that she was unprepared to appear before him. A few of her young friends were standing by her bedside. She warned them in the most affecting terms to prepare for death while in health. She told them of the mental agony she was then enduring, and of the heavier woes which were thickly scattered through that endless career she was about to enter. All her conversation was interspersed with the most heart-rending exclamations of despair. She said she knew that God was ready to forgive the sincerely penitent, but that her sorrow was not sorrow for sin, but dread of its awful penalty.

Last visit.

Her sufferings.

I had already said all that I could to lead her to the Savior-but no Savior cast his love on this dying bedno ray of peace cheered the departing soul. Youth and beauty were struggling with death; and as that eye which but a few days before had sparkled with gaiety, now gazed on to eternity, it was fixed in an expression of despair. By many a death-bed I had been,

"And many a sinner's parting seen,
"But never aught like this."

There was nothing that could be said. The moanings of the sufferer mingled with the prayer, which was almost inarticulately uttered, from the emotions which the scene inspired.

Late in the afternoon I called again. But her reason was gone, and in restless agony she was grappling with death. Her friends were standing around her, but she did not recognize them. Every eye in the room was filled with tears, but poor Louisa saw not, and heeded not their weeping. It was a scene which neither pen nor pencil can portray. At the present moment that chamber of death is as vividly present to my mind as it was when I looked upon it through irrepressible tears. I can now see the disorder of the dying bed-the restless form-the swollen veins--the hectic burning cheek-the eyes rolling wildly around the room-and the weeping friends. Who can describe such a scene? And who can imagine the emotions which one must feel who knew her history, and who knew that this delirium succeeded temporal, and perhaps preceded eternal despair. Louisa could no longer listen to my prayers; she could no longer receive the precious instructions of God's word. And what could be said to console her friends? Nothing. "Be still, and know that I am God," was all that could be said. I could only look and listen with reverence, inwardly praying that the sad spectacle might not be lost upon any of us. For some time I lingered around the solemn scene in

She dies at midnight. Her feelings at last. Almost a Christian.

silence. Not a word was spoken. All knew that death was near. The friends who were most deeply affected struggled hard to restrain the audible expression of grief. In silence I had entered the room, and in silence and sadness I went away.

Early the next morning I called at the door to inquire for Louisa.

"She is dead, sir," was the reply to my question. "At what time did she die?"

"About midnight, sir."

"Was her reason restored before her death?"

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It appeared partially to return a few moments before she breathed her last, but she was almost gone, and we could hardly understand what she said."

"Did she seem any more peaceful in her mind?"

"Her friends thought, sir, that she did express a willingness to depart, but she was so weak and so far gone that it was impossible for her to express her mind with any clearness."

This is all that can be said of the eternal prospects of one who "wished to live a gay and merry life till just before death, and then to become pious and die happy." Reader!

"Be wise TO-DAY-'tis madness to defer."

THE melancholy story related in the last chapter is not an uncommon one. It is the story of thousands. All that is necessary, reader, to make the case your own, is that you should feel such a degree of interest in religious du