The stranger felt reproved, and urged the subject no farther. All his affairs had been previously settled—he arranged every particular concerning his funeral, and counselled me on my conduct after his decease, with the utmost calmness; but I could not listen to it, although I was persuaded that he would not recover: there was something so heart-rending, and to me so premature, in the contemplation of his death, that I could not bring myself to reply to any of his suggestions. He was now near his end; but the more his body wasted, his intellect grew clearer—his soul seemed to wax strong in the anticipation of its freedom, and rejoice in the prospect of shuffling off its mortal coil. It was nearly three weeks since I had returned home; my mother and I were sitting beside him, when he expressed a wish to lie down in his bed. This he had attempted before I came home, but from the excessive pain it produced, he was obliged to abandon the idea. He now, however, felt assured that he could lie, and we carried him to the bed, but it was in vain; the horizontal posture caused him such agony that we were obliged to raise him, when he fainted in our arms. I thought he was dead—we placed him on a sofa—he recovered—one bright flash of intellect pervaded his features—for a few minutes he seemed as if perfectly well; and observing us weeping, he was surprised, and asked the reason. He appeared neither to feel pain, nor to remember that he had felt any; a gleam of hope shot across our minds that he might yet recover.—Ah no! his soul was on the threshold, pluming her wing for an eternal flight!—She fled—the celestial fire that animated his features, gave place to the cold damp of death—his lip quivered—one convulsive gasp, and he was no more! The day arrived on which I was to follow my father’s remains to the tomb. A torpid feeling had pervaded my mind since his death, nor did I feel any of those emotions which people in such circumstances are said to feel—he was even consigned to the grave, and the last sod smoothed over it, and yet I waked not to sensibility. When I returned home, our relations and friends were assembled, and although there was much commonplace expression of grief, and just encomiums passed on his character as a man and a Christian, still my heart was like a fountain sealed up. The last friend had departed, and I sat on the sofa on which my father had breathed his last, absorbed in the same melancholy stupor. The day had been stormy, and the pattering rain dashed against the windows, while the wind, sweeping along in sullen gusts, whistled through the casement, now wild and irregular—now low and mournful! There was something in this that struck a kindred chord within my bosom, and melted my whole soul. Oh! there are answering tones in nature, responsive to every feeling of humanity, from the light note of gladness, to the dying accents of despair!