"So fades the lovely, blooming flower, Frail, smiling solace of an hour; So soon our transient comforts fly, And pleasures only bloom to die." Soon after the death of her babe, Mrs. Newell discovered symptoms of the malady which soon carried her to an untimely grave. From the first, she had no hope of recovery. Several of her friends had died of the same disease; and when it fastened itself upon her system, she knew that her time had come. The slow, wasting consumption was on her frame, and her days were nearly run out. But the approach of death she viewed with perfect composure. Though far from home, far from all the endeared scenes of youth, from the roof which sheltered her in infancy, from the mother whose gentle hand guided her up to womanhood, she was tranquil. Death was only a dark shadow, which retreated before her as she advanced, and left her standing in the light of a cloudless day. While on her dying pillow she read through the book of Job, and derived from its hallowed counsels much divine support and comfort. While contemplating the sufferings of that godly man, her own trials dwindled away, and she lost sight of her own anguish in the deeper woes, of another. Often did she ask, as she remembered what others had endured and thought what trials some had experienced,-- "Shall I be carried to the skies On flowery beds of ease, While others fought to win the prize, And sailed through bloody seas?" Sometimes she wondered why she should be thus early taken away. She had left home and friends to labor for God in a heathen land; and why at the very onset he should call her to the grave, she could not understand. The great desire of her heart was to be the humble instrument in the conversion of sinners. She wished to win souls to Christ--to turn the attention of the dying heathen to the saving cross. Hence, when she found that, ere her work had fairly commenced, she was to be summoned away to her reward, torn from the arms of her husband, and removed beyond the province of toil, she failed to read the purpose of her Maker. All was gloom, and in calm submission she bowed her head to the coming storm. What was dark now she hoped to understand when the secrets of all hearts are known, and trusted that God was able to glorify himself as much in her death as in her life. During her sickness she gave expression to the feelings of her heart, and proved to all around her that death had lost dominion over her; that the grave had secured no victory; and when she met the terrors of one and the silence of the other, it was as the conqueror meets his smitten foe. Her last words were, "How long, O Lord, how long?" and with this sentence on her lips she passed away.