I was requested to lose no time in going to Charles Taylor, {45} as “he was dying,” and the case was represented as being most urgent. The sultry heat of the weather increased the great exhaustion and fatigue by which I was almost overpowered; and I despaired of being able to get to Underwood in time. A gig happened, at that moment, to be standing at the George Inn. To the owner, I was a stranger; but I briefly told him the sad tale, and he unhesitatingly lent it to me. In a few minutes I was at the cottage. Mr. Langworthy arrived at the same time. What were our feelings upon entering the room! At that instant the poor sufferer breathed his last! Such a combination of fearful calamity was quite overwhelming! Poor Susan Taylor, now a widow, fell down on the window seat, in a paroxysm of grief. At such a moment, talking to her would have been in vain. Sarah Taylor, her husband’s sister, was there as an assistant. We sat some little time without uttering a word. The solemn silence was interrupted only by the sobs of her who had just been bereft of the object upon whom she depended for comfort and support, or by a sigh from those around. May the lessons which must have reached the heart at such a time, never be erased. The uncertainty of life—the necessity of watchfulness—the duty of Christian sympathy,—our own utter helplessness, when it is the will of God to afflict us—our sole dependence upon His Almighty aid;—all these, and many more such reflections, pressed upon the mind; and well will it be for those who receive them into their hearts, as seed sown by the Holy Spirit, to bring forth fruit unto righteousness. The poor widow endeavoured to rush to the bed where her husband lay; and would have thrown herself upon his cold and discoloured corpse. She said she valued not her life. We talked to her—we endeavoured to reason with her. She was absorbed in grief; and, in the bitterness of bereavement, said she had no friend—no earthly friend—no where to lay her head—no one would take her into their house. She again made an effort to throw herself upon the bed. This could not be permitted. Every argument was used to direct her thoughts to a merciful God, who “will not suffer us to be tried above that we are able to bear,” and who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” She was directed where to go, and where she might remain, at least for a time, until her relations could arrange some plan for her to earn a livelihood. We were next called to the miserable apartment below, where Mary Parsons, aged sixty-nine, had just died. We remained some time with that family; the other patients exhibiting no indication of improvement.