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to say in 'Love and an affectionate farewell to them all.' Within a day or two of her death, such conversation as the following passed between us:—
"Should you not be willing to recover, and live a while longer here?"
"On some accounts, it would be desirable. I wish to do something for God before I die. But the experience I have had of the deceitfulness of my heart leads one to expect, that if I should recover, my future life would be much the same as my past has been, and I long to be perfectly free from sin. God has called me away before we have entered on the work of the mission, but the case of David affords me comfort: I have had it in my heart to do what I could for the heathen, and I hope God will accept me."
"But what shall I do, when you are gone? How can I bear the separation?"
Jesus will be your best friend, and our separation will be short. We shall soon, very soon, meet in a better world, if I thought we should not, it would be painful indeed to part with you."
During Sabbath night, she seemed to be a little wandering, but the next morning she had her recollection perfectly. As I stood by her, I asked if she knew me. At first she made no answer. I said to her again, "My dear Harriet, do you know who I am?"— "My dear Mr Newell, my husband," was her reply; but in broken accents, and a voice faltering in death.
The last words which I remember, and which I think were the last she uttered relative to her departure, were these, "The pains, the groans, the
dying strife— How long, O Lord, how long!"
Samuel Newell
