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sure. It becomes them, like king Hezekiah, to lay their cause before the Lord, and then they may expect a favour-. able issue.

The case of my dear niece I should consider as very des plorable, did I not know that there is a consolation in suffering for Christ with which the world is unacquainted. Let me repeat it, you are ever welcome to an asylum in my house ; and tell Mr. William and Miss Neville, that, if God shall deprive them of a father, they will find a mother in me. I shall rejoice to render them every service in my power. My house will be sufficient to accommodate us all, and my dear Eusebia too, if God shall restore her to us again ; and my income will afford us a frugal maintenance. Pray give my love to your kind host and host. ess, and to the friends of Jesus Christ at Thornton Abbey.

I am, my dear niece,

Your affectionate aunt,
• MARY WORTHINGTON.

: P.S. I have such news to tell you, that my trembling hand will scarcely perform the task. Our dear friend is no more! I have done nothing but weep since I heard of it. I dread to think how her poor father will bear the stroke.

I was about to fold up my letter, when my friend capt. Smith entered the room, accompanied by another person. Madam, said he, I fear I have bad news to tell you. I made all the inquiry I could concerning the young lady whom you told me you expected from France. Perhaps you will gain some information from this bundle. I examined it, and found his suspicion to be too well founded. Among other things there was our correspondence in her own hand-writing.

The captain told me that the young man who accompa-". nied him, and his captain, were all who were saved out of eight persons, among whom was one young lady. They sailed from Dunkirk in the afternoon; and, it being blowing weather in the night, at three o'clock in the morning the vessel struck on the South Sand head of the Goodwin. They expected her every moment to go to pieces, and therefore hauled out the boat, in which two sailors, the cabig-boy, and three passengers, with great difficulty em.

barked: but the captain and this sailor preferred staying upon the wreck. He says they could discern the boat founder at about two hundred yards distance. He and the captain, after remaining about an hour upon the wreck, were providentially taken up by a smuggling vessel.

I paid the young man the full value of the bundle which he had saved, and also rewarded him for his intelligence. The bundle I shall send down by the waggon, directed for our friend Thomas Livingstone ; and I must leave it to the direction of my friends to make Mr, Neville acquainted with the sad event.

How happy it is to be habitually prepared for death! This was eminently the case of our dear Eusebia, and she is now landed in a fair haven, where storms and tempests will be no more; where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

My dear friends, adieu.

LETTER XLV.
From Mr. William Neville to Mrs. Worthington.

DEAR MADAM,

I QUR kindness to my dear sister, deceased, to myself, and to my family in general, demands my most grateful thanks. I esteem it no common mercy that I am one of those whom you are pleased to honour with a share in your friendship. I assure you, that my sister and I feel such an - affection for Mrs. Worthington as may be much easier conceived than expressed.

We are full of grief on account of the loss of the kindest and most tender sister. Oh, what a sister have we lost. No, she is not lost : she is only gone before, to take possession of the mansion which her Lord and head as cended into heaven to prepare for her. Happy, thrice hapo py, they, who have thus passed the swellings of Jordan, and

are landed in that Canaan where there are no sons of Anak; who are inhabitants of that city into which no un clean person shall enter; and who are arrived in that pa-. radise where there shall be no more curse!

My dear friend (for so, Madam must I call you) I am very much afflicted, and at the same time very joyful, if I have buried one sister in the devouring ocean, I have unexpectedly received another from the dead. When I found that my sister had changed the language of Ashdod for that of Canaan, I was like them that dream, and could scarcely believe for joy and wonder. All our mercies flow from that God who worketh all things after the counsel, of his own will. To him I desire to give the praise.

Your amiable niece is well, and at our house, and I be lieve is not less afflicted than my sister and myself at losing her dear Eusebia. We mourn on account of our own loss; for we have no doubt but her beloved Saviour has conducted her to the promised rest.

I have not mentioned my dear parent: his affliction is great indeed. He considers himself as the murderer of a. most beloved child.

When the post-man came yesterday with a letter to fac :: ther Albino, the old gentleman observed one with a large black seal directed for Thomas Livingstone. He called my father, and told him that that letter probably contained some account of his daughter. The letter-carrier was de. sired to stop while the footman went for Thomas. . When he was come, my father begged him to read it there, and to let him know.if there was any thing in it concerning his daughter. Thomas replied that the letter did not belong to him, but' to a certain person at his house. My father immediately suspected that my sister was there, and told the good man that he would go with him, as he did not doubt but the person would inform him if there was any thing in the letter concerning his daughter. He was surprised when he saw Miss Barnwell, who, as soon as she saw him, turned pale, and trembled from head to bot. Ah, Miss Barnwell, cried he, how dreadful a thing is. guilt! She soon recovered herself sufficiently to tell him, that it was not guilt, but surprise at seeing him there,

which affected her. Well, well, replied my father, we will wave this. Thomas has a letter for you ; and all I deo sire to know is, whether it contains any thing concerning my daughter. Miss Barnwell, taking the letter, hastily opened it, and read it to herself, till she came to the postscript, when she fainted away, and dropped it out of her hand. · If, Madam, you had been there, as I was, you would have seen a melancholy sight indeed. While Thomas and his wife were taking care of Miss Barnwell, I took up the letter, and cast my eye on the postscript. O my dear father, said I, the contents are too bad for you to know. My parent burst into tears, and cried out, My child is dead! Oh she is dead, she is dead! I shall never see her any more! I have murdered my child! No words can describe the grief of my father, and indeed of us all except father Albino, who said the ensuing evening that he had expected no less : that her death was manifestly a divine judgment; and that if he was her father, he should no more grieve for her than for a dog. St. John, said he, tells us, in the Apocalypse, that without the gates of the city, that is, out of the pale of the church, are dogs and sorce.

rers.

You must have a heart of adamant, cried my father, or you could not talk at this rate. It is a sign you do not know what it is to be a parent. If God were to have no more compassion than you, the case of my daughter would be deplorable indeed. Oh how did she declare on her knees before me at St. Omer's, that she would gladly lay down her life for my sake ; and how did she pray me, for the sake of the dear Redeemer, not to desire her to do those things which it was impossible for her to do ; and how did my son beseech us to have compassion on her, when we saw the anguish of her soul. I tell you, father, I have imbrued my hands in the blood of my child, and you are an accomplice in my guilt.

The priest was wise enough not to reply. He perceived, by my father's manner of speaking, that he was greatlý moved, and that he himself was the principal object of his resentment. Indeed this priest had the entire keeping of his conscience; and he was hurried on to do what

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he did, contrary to his natural inclination. When my dear sister fled from St. Omer's, my father thought I had some hand in it. But when I solemnly and truly told him that I had not, and that I was ignorant whither she was gone, he told me he was fearful he should never see her again ; and that if what had been done could be recalled, he would not desire her to take the veil contrary to her inclination. My father is a very humane man, and a tender and indul. gent parent. It is greatly to be lamented, that the infinite, ly benevolent religion of the meek and lowly Jesus should be so far corrupted, as to make those who are naturally of an amiable temper the persecutors of the servants of Jesus. I must do father Albino the justice to say, that he is as tender and benevolent a man as any in the world, where religion is not concerned; but the least contradiction in that tender point greatly irritates him. He has, however, carried his point too far, and has thereby lost much of his influence over my father...

To-day my father asked my sister how Miss Barnwell came to be at Thomas Livingstone's.

Permit me, Sir, replied she, to tell you the truth. I was very ill while you were out ; indeed I am far from be. ing well now ; and I entreated Miss Barnwell to visit me. :: She knew that she had offended you by corresponding with my dear sister: I could not persuade her therefore to stay after you came home.

My father rang instantly for the footman. John, said he, go to Thomas Livingstone's and give my respects to Miss Barnwell, and desire her to be so kind as to come to my house,

Sir, said father Albino, I think you have had trouble enough through that heretic, without running a fresh hazard of having the minds of your children poisoned with her damnable doctrine.

The greatest calamity I ever met with, said my father, is the death of my dear child : and you, Sir, ought to know who it is that has been in a great measure the cause of it. This lady has her peculiar sentiments, as we have ours; but she could not be the intended enemy of my child. I was a witness of the grief with which she was filled at the news of her death. The pressure was so great, that nature

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