"All the better for a sight of your sweet face--blessings on it! But I’m going--going fast! I shall soon be in my home. God be praised for His mercies!" Ada sat down on the wooden three-legged stool which the washerwoman, after wiping it with her apron, placed for her accommodation, and listened silently and wonderingly to the dialogue between the aged woman and her visitor. There was no forced conversation, no difficulty in finding themes for discourse. Their subjects were the highest, the most solemn, the most interesting which can occupy the minds of immortals. Mrs. Arkwright was near the grave, and she knew it. She was calmly standing on the brink of the Jordan awaiting the signal from the Lord whom she had loved, and leaning upon the staff of His promise, "_When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee_." Ada had ever connected the idea of death with terror and gloom. The struggle, the darkness, the parting from everything once prized, the hatchment, the hearse with its black nodding plumes, the cold desolation of the grave,--such were the images brought to her mind by the word; and she had turned from them with repugnance and horror. But here she beheld death in a totally different aspect, as a freedom from sorrow, a commencement of bliss, a reunion with all most beloved, a summons to the presence of an adored Redeemer, a welcome to the home of a Father! Ada had imagined that those of her own class only entered the cottages of the poor to convey help to the needy, or instruction to the ignorant; but she beheld here that the rich in visiting the poor may receive as well as impart, that she whose mind is cultivated and refined may well sit as a learner beside the lowly saint whose only knowledge is the knowledge of the Saviour. Flora listened more than she spoke. For some time the feeble voice of the dying woman alone broke the stillness of the place, till, at her earnest request that the young lady would let her hear once more--for the last time--her favourite hymn for the departing, in accents which trembled with emotion Flora sang the following verses:-- HYMN FOR THE DYING. The day of life is closing, Its last faint beams have fled; Yet faith, on Christ reposing, Can death’s cold waters tread! The dark sea spreads before me, Upon the brink I stand, Oh, guide me, Lord of glory! To heaven’s blissful strand! To Thee, Lord, I flee; My trust is in Thee. O death! where is thy sting? O grave! thy victory? No longer here detain me; I hear my Saviour’s voice, I feel His arm sustain me, I triumph and rejoice! The Lord will bless for ever Those who His love have known Nor life nor death can sever The Saviour from His own! Victorious and free His people shall be. O death! where is thy sting? O grave! thy victory?