The effects of this act of kindness had not passed away when a heavy
cloud hung over the happy home at Brixton. She, who for more than
half-a-century had been the loving helpmeet of the African missionary,
sharing his joys and sorrows, his hopes and discouragements, and many of
his privations and perils, lay dying. A troublesome cough, a difficulty
of breathing, a few long deep breaths, and she was gone, without even a
word of farewell; called home to receive the "Well done, good and
faithful servant," and to enter into the joy of her Lord. Her last words
were a prayer for her husband, that strength might be given him to bear
the blow.

Robert Moffat indeed needed strength in this hour of affliction. His
first exclamation on finding that she had really gone was, "For
fifty-three years I have had her to pray for me," and writing to his old
friend and fellow-labourer, Roger Edwards, who was then at Port
Elizabeth, he said, "How lonely I feel, and if it were not for Jeanie
(his daughter) it would be much more so."

The events of the next few years may be briefly summarised. He travelled
much to different parts of the country, visiting High Leigh, the old
house at Dukinfield, and Carronshore. His services were continually in
requisition for missionary meetings, and doubtless many of our readers
will be old enough to remember the bronzed face, with its full flowing
beard, blanched by age, the keen eyes, and the venerable form of Robert
Moffat at this time, and to call to mind the pleasure they derived as
they listened to his glowing descriptions of the needs of Africa.

The winter of 1871 was passed at Ventnor, in the Isle of Wight, and
occupied in revising proof sheets of the Old Testament in Sechwana.
While there he was, by Her Majesty's own desire, introduced to the