Another of this company, was one who had been associated with me in study. The home of his childhood was amid the rugged hills of New England. He had contended with a long train of difficulties to push his way onward to the threshold of the sacred ministry. The last obstacles now seemed giving away. In about a year he would go forth as the accredited ambassador of the King of kings. Animated with this thought, and the brightening prospect around him, his mind on that evening seemed winged with hope, and his conversation was full of life and sprightliness. Just about a year had gone. The day for his ordination was appointed. His friends were anxiously waiting to see him put the sacred armour on. But the hand of disease suddenly seized him, and on the very day he was to have been ordained, he died, and I trust went up to the heavenly court to be made there a "priest unto God." A third in this group, was a beloved brother, who had been to me not only a brother, but my spiritual father. It was his voice that first directed my feet to the cross of Christ; and it was from his hands that I first received the consecrated memorials of a Saviour's dying love. The cares and toils and anxieties of his spiritual flock were even then wearing away his life. A few years passed by, and my friend--my counsellor--my brother, was borne to that same burial-ground, where his voice had been so often heard, committing "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." There are those that remember the pastor's counsel, who still go to that grave where his ashes sleep, and water it with their tears. The last in that group which sat and conversed so delightfully together on the evening to which I have adverted, was one who bore to me a dearer and more sacred relation than any or all of these. Can I ever forget the kindliness of that eye that beamed with such sweet affection on me? Can I ever forget the soft velvet pressure of that hand, which when I was sick was laid so gently on my burning, feverish brow? Can I ever forget that cradle hymn, that calmed my infant fears, and hushed all my troubles to repose? Can I ever forget the tones of that sweet voice that first breathed into my infant ear the name of Jesus? Can I ever forget the appearance of that dear form, the heavenliness of that look, or even the seat in which she sat, when I was first taught to kneel down by her side, and say "_Our Father who art in heaven?_" No! Every other image may fade from my memory, but my mother's will be there for ever!