'My dearest Sophy,--Your letter with the deep black border was the
first that I opened, with trembling hand, thinking: "Is it dear dear
Uncle gone to his eternal rest; or dear Aunty? not that dear child,
may God grant; for that would somehow seem to all most bitter of all-
-less, so to speak, reasonable and natural." And he is really gone;
that dear, loving, courageous, warm-hearted servant of Christ; the
desire of our eyes taken away with a stroke. I read your letter
wondering that I was not upset, knelt down and said the two prayers
in the Burial Service, and then came the tears; for the memory of him
rose up very vividly before me, and his deep love for me and the
notes of comfort and encouragement he used to write were very fresh
in my mind. I looked at the print of him, the one he sent out to me,
with "your loving old Uncle" in pencil on it. I have all his
letters: when making a regular clearance some months ago, I could not
tear up his, although dangerous ones for me to read unless used as a
stimulant to become what he thought me. His "Jacob" sermon in his
own handwriting, I have by me. But more than all, the memory of his
holy life, and his example as a minister of Christ, have been left
behind for us as a sweet, undying fragrance; his manner in the sick-
room--I see him now, and hear that soft, steady, clear voice
repeating verses over my dear mother's death-bed; his kindly, loving
ways to his poor people; his voice and look in the pulpit, never to
be forgotten. I knew I should never see him again in this world.
May God of His mercy take me to be with him hereafter.

'Thank you, dear Sophy, for writing to me; every word about him is
precious, from his last letter to me:--

'"You will believe how sweet it is to me every month now to give the