Hardinge had us both brought to the bed-side, to listen to the parting
advice of our dying parent, and to be impressed with a scene that is
always healthful, if rightly improved. "You baptized these two dear
children, good Mr. Hardinge," she said, in a voice that was already
enfeebled by physical decay, "and you signed them with the sign of the
cross, in token of Christ's death for them; and I now ask of your
friendship and pastoral care to see that they are not neglected at the
most critical period of their lives--that when impressions are the
deepest, and yet the most easily made. God will reward all your
kindness to the orphan children of your friends." The excellent
divine, a man who lived more for others than for himself, made the
required promises, and the soul of my mother took its flight in peace.

Neither my sister nor myself grieved as deeply for the loss of this
last of our parents, as we did for that of the first. We had both
seen so many instances of her devout goodness, had been witnesses of
so great a triumph of her faith as to feel an intimate, though silent,
persuasion that her death was merely a passage to a better state of
existence--that it seemed selfish to regret. Still, we wept and
mourned, even while, in one sense, I think we rejoiced. She was
relieved from, much bodily suffering, and I remember, when I went to
take a last look at her beloved face, that I gazed on its calm
serenity with a feeling akin to exultation, as I recollected that pain
could no longer exercise dominion over her frame, and that her spirit
was then dwelling in bliss. Bitter regrets came later, it is true,
and these were fully shared--nay, more than shared--by Grace.

After the death of my father, I had never bethought me of the manner
in which he had disposed of his property. I heard something said of
his will, and gleaned a little, accidentally, of the forms that had