“‘It is thy will, my Lord, my God!— And I, whose feet so lately trod The margin of the tomb, Must now retrace my weary way, And in this land of exile stay, Far from my heavenly home. “‘It is thy will!—And this, to me, A check to every thought shall be, Which each might dare rebel. Those sacred words contain a balm, Each sad regret to soothe and calm, Each murmuring thought to quell. “‘It is thy will!—And now anew, Let me my earthly path pursue, With one determined aim; To thee to consecrate each power, To thee to dedicate each hour, And glorify thy name. “‘It is thy will!—I ask no more; Yet, if I cast toward that bright shore A longing, tearful eye, It is because, when landed there, Sin will no more my heart ensnare, Nor Satan e’er draw nigh.’[2] Do you like it?” “Oh yes! very much.” “Carry shall copy it for you then. This little volume is my _vade mecum_. You may always find my Bible in my right pocket, and this in my left. It is rather too dear for the poor, which I regret; but its circulation is already very extensive.” I found that it was the “Invalid’s Hymn-book,” and that my favourite Sabbath hymn, which I had erroneously attributed to Hugh White, was, as well as this, by Miss Elliott. “Will you let me offer you a glass of wine?” said I. “Thank you, I shall like a glass of wine-and-water and a biscuit very much, if you will have the same.” “I will, then.” I believe it was partly on my account he had it. As we partook of our refreshment, he spoke so pleasantly and interestingly, that I was completely lured away from all my sad thoughts; and, after offering up a short, fervent prayer, which was full of tempered thanksgiving for life, and faith in the life to come, he left me quite composed and cheerful. And here have I been living the happy half-hour over again. I must just note down something else that he said to me.