ed my face, and again dropping upon her knees, she once more lifted her streaming eyes to heaven in my behalf, when starting up, she hastened to the retirement of her chamber, and instantly closed the door. I stood like a statue; I could not move; I was almost petrified by sorrow. But from this state of stupefaction I was roused by the burst of sorrow, and loud lamentations of my sisters; I turned to the dear girls, I wept with them, and endeavoured to give them that consolation which I did not myself possess. But, hastening from this scene of sorrow, there was one pang, which I calculated to escape. The youngest child, a beautiful little boy, who bore the name of my father—sweet cherub—I dreaded seeing him, and determined to spare myself this torture; but, as I slowly, and pensively passed from the house, believing that what was worse than the bitterness of death had passed, this lovely little fellow crossed my path. Sweet innocent, thou wert playful as the frisking lamb of the pasture, totally ignorant of the agonies, which wrung the heart of thy brother. He ran to me, clung around my knees, and looking wishfully in my face, affectingly questioned; "Where are you going?" I could not reply, I attempted to move on, he took hold of my garment; "Let me go with you? shall not I go with you, brother?" He uttered these questions, in a voice so plaintive, that he pierced my very soul. Surely, had it been possible, I should even then have relinquished my purpose. It was with difficulty that I extricated myself from this supplicating infant. I would have hastened forward, but my trembling limbs refused their office; I caught him in my arms, I pressed him to my aching bosom, and but for a burst of tears, which came seasonably to my relief, the struggles of my heart must have choaked me. I left him—yes, I left this youngest of my father's children; this dear object of my soul's affection, this infant charge, committed to my care, by an expiring father: I left him in the act of innocent supplication. I left him when I should, with a thousand times less of suffering, have quitted the clay-built tabernacle of my spirit; nor had I ought in prospect, to compensate the sorrows to which I voluntarily submitted!! Surely, there is a hand unseen, which governs the human being, and all his actions; I repeat, truly the way of man is not in himself. Few sufferings could surpass those which, upon this occasion, I endured: My bitterest enemy could not have censured me with more severity, than I censured myself, yet I passed on; no friend could urge my return with more energy, than did the emotions of my own afflicted heart, yet I passed on. True, I passed
