It was on a bright Sabbath morning at the end of June, that having rather overslept myself, I found, on awaking, the letters brought by early post lying on my pillow. I took one: it was the Horse Guards envelope, in which his letters usually came; and in my eagerness to open one from him, I did not even put up a prayer. Full of smiling anticipation, I unfolded the enclosure, which was from a most dear and valued friend at the Horse Guards; and after some tender preparation, which the sudden reeling of my terrified brain prevented my comprehending, came the paralyzing sequel: A letter had been received from Mullingar--he was on the lake fishing--the boat overset. I could not understand the meaning of the words; but I understood the thing itself. I sprung to my knees to cry for mercy on him--but Oh, that dreadful, dreadful thought that pierced through my inmost soul--"He is beyond the reach of prayer." I fell back as if really shot. But what avails it to dwell on this? I bore it as God enabled me; I felt crushed, annihilated as it were, under the fierce wrath of the Lord; for to aggravate the blow, I had no power to believe or to hope. It was a light thing to have lost him, my all in this cold, dreary world, who from early infancy had been as the light to my eyes, and the life-blood to my heart--him who had so very lately been restored, as if to show that while he remained all I could desire of earthly happiness was within my reach--him who had been to me instead of every other mortal blessing, and to whom I looked for all that I dared hope of future comfort. It was a light thing to have lost him, and to look upon the anguish of his widowed mother, to whom he had ever been more of a ministering angel than a son, and upon the tears of his little daughter, who had lost a father indeed. All this was a small matter compared with the overwhelming horrors of that fearful thought, that _he_ had lost his soul.