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sation with her, "I was almost afraid that I should not see you here this evening."

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I feel sir," said she, "that it is time for me to attend to my immortal soul. I have neglected it too long."

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Do you feel that you are a sinner, Louisa ?"

Yes, sir, I do."

"Do you think, Louisa, you have any claim upon God to forgive you?"

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No, sir. It would be just in God to leave me to perish. I think I want to repent, but I cannot. I want to love God, but I do not know how I can."

"Do you remember, Louisa, that Christ has said, 'Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple?" "

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Yes, sir."

Well, Louisa, now count the cost; are you ready to give up all for Christ? Are you ready to turn from your gay companions, and lay aside your frivolous pleasures, and acknowledge the Saviour publicly, and be derided, as perhaps you will be, by your former friends, and live a life of prayer and of effort to do good?"

She hesitated for a moment, and then replied, "I am afraid not."

Well, Louisa, the terms of acceptance with God are plain, and there is no altering them. You cannot serve God and Mammon. If you would be a Christian, you must renounce all sin, and with a broken heart surrender yourself entirely to the Saviour."

The evening's interview closed as before, and a similar appointment was made for the next week. Some of the young ladies present, I had reason to believe, had accepted the terms of salvation. The next week about the same number were present, but Louisa was not with them. A slight cold had detained her. But the week after she again appeared. To my great disappointment I found her interest fast diminishing. Though not exhibiting that cold reserve which she at first manifested, she seemed far less anxious than at our last interview. The Spirit was grieved away. This was the last time she called to see me; but alas, I was soon called to see her, under circumstances which at that time were but little anticipated. These social meetings

continued for some time, and many of Louisa's associates I have cause to hope became the disciples of Jesus.

Two or three months passed away, and my various duties so far engrossed my mind, that my particular interest in Louisa's spiritual welfare had given place to other solicitudes, when one day as I was riding out making parochial visits, one of my parishioners informed me that she was quite unwell, and desired to see me. In a few moments I was in her sick-chamber. She had taken a violent cold, and it had settled into a fever. She was lying in her bed, her cheek glowing with the feverish hue, and her lips parched with thirst. She seemed agitated when I entered the room, and the moment I stood by her bed-side and inquired how she did, she covered her face with both hands, and burst into a flood of tears.

Her sister, who was by her bed-side, immediately turned to me and said, "Sir, she is in great distress of mind. Mental anxiety has kept her awake nearly all night. She has wanted very much to see you, that you might converse with her."

I was fearful that the agitation of her feelings might seriously injure her health, and did all in my power to soothe and pacify.

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But, sir,” said Louisa, “ I am sick and may die; I know that I am not a Christian, and oh if I die in this state of mind, what will become of me? what will become of me?" and again she burst into tears.

What could I say? Every word she said was true. Her eyes were opened to her danger. There was cause for alarm. Sickness was upon her. Delirium might soon 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.

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

I told her of the Saviour's love. I pointed to many of God's precious promises to the penitent. I endeavoured to induce her to resign her soul calmly to the Saviour; but all that was offered was unavailing. Trembling and agitated, she was looking forward to the dark future. The Spirit of the Lord had opened her eyes to the truth, and by her own reflections, had led her into this state of seasonable alarm. The interview was indeed an affecting one; anxiety was depicted upon her flushed countenance, and she was restless, and groaning under the accumulated ills of body and of mind. I knelt by her bed-side, and fervently prayed that the Holy Spirit would guide her to the truth, and that the Saviour would speak peace to her troubled soul. Oh, could they who are postponing repentance to a sickbed have witnessed the mournful suffering of this once merry girl, they would shudder at the thought of a deathbed repentance. How poor a time to prepare to meet God when the mind is enfeebled by disease, when the body is restless or even racked with pain, and when mental agitation frustrates the skill of the physician. Yet so it is. One half of the world are postponing repentance to a dying hour. And when sickness comes, the very knowledge of being unprepared for death hurries the miserable victim of delay 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 upon her countenance shewed me the strong lineaments of despair. I needed not to ask her how she felt. Her countenance told too powerfully her feelings; and I knew that while her mind was in this state, restoration to boldily health was out of the question.

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

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Oh, sir, I know that the Saviour is merciful, but somehow or other I cannot go to him; I do not know why, oh 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 forgive than we to ask for

giveness. He is more ready to give good gifts to his children than any earthly parent to give bread to his hungry child."

I then opened the Bible to the 15th chapter of Luke, and read the parable of the prodigal son. I particularly directed her attention to the 20th verse, "But 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."

"Oh, sir," said she, "none of these promises seem meant for me; I can find no peace to my troubled spirit ; I have long been sinning against God, and now he is going to take me to render up my account, and oh! what an account have I to render! The doctor gives me medicine, but I feel that it does me no good, for I can think of nothing but my poor soul. Even if I were perfectly well, I could hardly endure the view of my sins which God has given If my sins were forgiven, how happy should I be; but now-Oh!" her voice was stopped by a fit of shuddering which very much agitated those around her bedside with the fear that she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves became more quiet, and I kneeled by her bedside to commend her spirit to the Lord.


As I

As I rode home, her despairing countenance was unceasingly before my eyes. Her lamentations and her mournful groans were continually crying in my ears. kneeled with my family at the domestic altar, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. All night I tossed restlessly upon my pillow, dreaming that I was urging consolation by 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 to my inquiries for her.

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

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

"Is her mind any more composed than it has been ?" "Oh 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 of body she still manifested, as she continually turned from side to side in her restlessness. Death was drawing nearer ;—she knew it. She had lived in the world without God, and she 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 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.

I had already said all that I could say to lead her to the Saviour. Indeed, her understanding seemed to be sufficiently enlightened, but the Lord had come to her and shewed her the sinfulness of her unreconciled heart. Who could stand and witness such a scene as this, knowing that the trembling immortal was soon to be ushered into eternity, and not pray almost with an agony of earnestness, that God would have mercy upon her soul? And how evident must it have been to any one, that there was no power but divine power, which could liberate her mind from the gloom and darkness in which it was enveloped. It was God who had opened her eyes to a view of her situation; it was God who had rolled over the mind these surges of despair; and it was God who alone could say to them " peace be still." "Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are."

But no Saviour was casting his love around this dyingbed. No rays of peace beamed upon that departing soul. Youth and beauty were struggling beneath the strong arm of death, and as that eye, which but a few days before had sparkled with gaiety, gazed forward to eternity, it was fixed in an expression of despair.

"By many a death-bed I had been,

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

There was nothing that could be said. The moanings.

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