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resided, but in different parts of the country. In February, 1783, I received a letter from her, which, before I opened it, I expected was to inform me that she was on her way to London. But the intelligence was, that in a little journey she had made to bid a friend farewell, she had caught a violent cold, which brought on a fever and a cough. Though she described her illness in as gentle terins as possible, that we might not be alarmed, I instantly gave up the hope of seeing her. Succeeding letters confirmed my suspicions ; her malady increased, and she was soon confined to ber bed. Eliza was at school at Mussleburgh. Till then she had enjoyed a perfect state of health, but while her dear mother was rapidly declining, she likewise caught a severe cold, and her life was soon thought to be in danger. On this occasion that fortitude and resolution which strongly marked my sister's character were remarkably displayed. She knew that her own race was almost finished : she earnestly desired that Eliza might live, or die with us; and the physicians advised a speedy removal into the south. Accordingly, to save time, and to spare Eliza the impression which the sight of a dying parent might probably make upon her spirits, and possibly apprehensive that the interview might too much affeci her own, she sent her beloved and only child directly to London. She contented berself with committing and bequeathing her to our care and love, in a letter, which I believe was the last she was able to write. Thus powerfully recommended by the pathetic charge of a dying mother, the dearest friend we had upon the earth ; and by that plea for compassion which her illness might have strongly urged even upon strangers, we received our dear Eliza, as a trust and a treasure, on the fifteenth of March, 1783. My sister lived long enough to have the comfort of knowing that Eliza was safely arrived, and was perfectly pleased with her new situation. She suffered much in the remaining part of her illness, but she possessed a hope full of glory. She departed this life on the tenth of May, 1783; respected and regretted by all who knew her.

I soon perceived that the Lord had sent me a treasure indeed. Eliza's person was agreeable; her address was easy and elegant; and all her movements were graceful, till long illness, and great weakness, bowed her down. Her disposition was lively, her genius quick and inventive; and if she had enjoyed health, she would probably have excelled in every thing she attempted, that required ingenuity. Her understanding, particularly her judgment, and her sense of propriety, were far above her years: there was something in her appearance which usually procured her favour at first sight. But her principal endearing recommendations which could be fully known only to us who lived with her, were the sweetness of her temper, and her heart formed for the exercise of affection, gratitude, and friendship. Whether, when at school, she might have heard sorrowful tales from children who, having lost their parents, had experienced a great change of treatment when they were placed under the direction of uncles and aunts, and might think that all uncles and aunts are alike, I know not; but I afterwards understood from herself, that she did not come to us with any highly-raised expectations of a very kind reception. But she soon found that it would scarcely have been possible for her own parents to have treated her more tens derly; and it was, from that time, the business and the pleasure of our lives to study to oblige her, and to alleviate ihe afflictions which we were unable to remove. We likewise quickly found, that the seeds of our kindness could hardly have been sown in a more promising and fruitful soil. I know not that either her aunt, or ļ, ever saw a cloud upon her countenance during the time she was with us. It is true, we did not, we could not, unnecessarily cross her ; but, if we thought it expedient to over-rule any proposal which she made, she acquiesced with a sweet smile, and we were certain that we should never hear of that proposal again. Her delicacy, however, was quicker than our observation, and she would sometimes say, when we could not perceive the least reason for it, “ I am afraid I answered you peevishly, if I did, I ask your pardon. Indeed, I did not intend it. I should be very ungrateful, if I thought any pleasure equal to that of endeavouring to please you."

When I received my first adopted child, I seemed to acguire new feelings, if not exactly those of a parent, yet, as I conceive, not altogether unlike them; and I long thought it was not possible for me to love any child as I did her. But when Eliza came, she, without being her rival, quickly participated with her in the same affection: I found that I had room enough for them both, without prejudice to either. I loved the one very dearly, and the other not less than before, if possible, still more, when I saw she entered into my views, received her cousin, and behaved towards her with great affection, ascribing many little indulgences and attencions that were shown her, to their proper cause, the consideration of her state of health, and not to any preference that could operate to her own disadvantage. My prayers in this respect seemed to be so graciously answered, that I could not perceive any jealousy or suspicion on either side, from first to last.

The hectic fever, and the cough, which Eliza brought with her from Scotland, were subdued in the course of the summer, and there appeared no reason to apprehend that she would be taken off very suddenly. But still there was a worm preying upon the root of this pretty gourd. She had seldom any severe pain until within the last fortnight of her life, and usually slept well; but when awake she was always ill. I believe she had not a single hour of perfect ease ; and they who intimately knew her state, could not but wonder to see her so placid, cheerful, and attentive in company, as she generally was. Many a time, when the tears have silently stolen down her cheeks, if she saw that her aunt, or I, observed her, she would wipe them away, come to us with a smile, and say, " Do not be uneasy,

I am not very ill, I can bear it, I believe I shall be better presently;" or something to that effect.

Her case was thought beyond the reach of medicine, and for a time no medicine was used. She had air and exercise, as the weather and other circumstances would permit. She amused herself, as well as she was able, with her guitar or harpsichord, with her needle, and with reading. She took a part likewise, when she was able, in the visits that we paid or received ; and they were generally regulated by a regard to what she could bear. Her aunt seldom went abroad, but at such times, and to such places, as we thought agreeable and convenient to her; for we could perceive that she preferred home, especially when we were with her.

In April, 1784, we put her under the care of my dear friend, Dr. Benamor. To the blessing of the Lord on his skill and endeavours, I ascribe the pleasure of her continua ance with us so long ; nor can I sufficiently express my gratitutde for his assiduous, unwearied attention, and his great tenderness. She often spoke of the comfort she derived, from having so affectionate and sympathizing a physician.

Her excellent parents had conscientiously endeavoured to bring her up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and the principles of religion were instilled into her mind from infancy. Their labours were so far successful, that no young person could be more obedient or obliging ihan she was, or more remote from evil habits, or evil tempers, but I could not perceive, when she first came to us, that she had any affecting sense of divine things. Being under my roof, she, of course, attended on my ministry, when her health would permit; and was usually present when I prayed, and expounded the Scriptures, morning and evening, in the family. Friends and ininisters were likewise frequently with us, whose character and conversation were well suited to engage her notice, and to assist her in forming a right idea of the Christian principles and temper. When I attempted to talk with her on the concerns of her soul, she could give me no answer, but with tears. I soon, however, had great encouragement to hope that the Lord had both enlightened her understanding, and had drawn the desires of her heart to himself. Great was her delight in the ordinances exemplary her attention to the preaching of the gospel. To be debarred from these privileges at the stated times, was a trial, which though she patiently bore, seemed to affect her more than any other, and she did not greatly care what she endured in the rest of the week, provided she was well enough to attend public worship. The observations which she occasionally made upon what had passed in conversation, apon incidents, books, and sermons, indicated a religious turn of mind, and a conformity with the doctrines of the Scriptures; and her whole deportment was becoming the gospel of Christ. So that had she died suddenly, should have had no doubt that she had passed from death unto life. But I could seldom prevail with her to speak of kerself; if she did, it was with the greatest diffidence and caution.

In the autumn of 1785, soon after her return from Southampton, where we had spent some weeks in the hope of beBefiting her health, she became acquainted with acute pain, to which she had till then been much a stranger. Her gentle spirit, which had borne up a long and languishing illness, was not so capable of supporting pain : it did not occasion any improper temper or language, but it wore her away apace.

We now became very desirous of hearing from herself a more explicit account of the hope that was in her; especially as upon some symptoms of an approaching mortification, she appeared to be a little alarmed, and, of course, not thoroughly reconciled to the thoughts of death. Her aunt waited for the first convenient opportunity of intimating to her the probability that the time of her departure was at

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hand. On the morning of Saturday, the first of October, Eliza found herself remarkably better; her pains were almost gone, her spirits revived; the favourable change was visible in her countenance. Her aunt said to her,” My dear, were you pot extremely ill last night?”—“ Indeed I was.”-Had you not been relieved, I think you could not have continued long."-"I believe I could not.”—“ dear, I have been very anxiously concerned for your life.

“ But I hope my dear aunt, you are not so now. views of things have been for some time very different from what they were when I came to you : I have seen and felt the vanity of childhood and youth."-"I believe, my dear Eliza, you have long made a conscience of secret prayer.” “Yes, I have long and earnestly sought the Lord, with reference to the change which is now approaching. I have not that full assurance which is so desirable, but I have a hope, I trust a good hope; and I believe the Lord will give me whatever he sees necessary for me, before he takes me hence. I have prayed to him to fit me for himself, and then, whether sooner or later, it signifies but little."-We were thus satisfied that she had given up all expectations of living, and that she could speak of her departure without being distressed.

Her apparent revival was of short duration. In the evening of the same day, she began to complain of a sore throat, which soon became worse, and, before Sunday noon, threatened suffocation. When Dr. Benamor, who the day before had almost entertained hopes of her recovery, found her so suddenly and greatly altered, he could not, at the moinent, prevent some signs of concern from appearing in his countenance. She quickly perceived it, and desired he would plainly tell her his sentiments. When he had recovered himself, he said, “ You are not so well as when I saw you on Saturday.” She answered, “ I trust all will be well soon.” He replied, that whether she lived or died, it would be well, and to the glory of God. From that time she may be said to have been dying, as we expected her departure from one hour to another.

On Monday, she was almost free from any complaint in her throat; but there was again an appearance of a mortification in her legs : which was again repelled by the means which Dr. Benamor prescribed. She was in great pain this day; sometimes in agonies, unable to remain many minutes in the same position. But her mind was peaceful: she possessed a spirit of recollection and devotion; and her

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