I was no sooner settled at Chapel-court, but I had frequent invitations to other places: the congregation was unsettled at Grub-street: here I preached several times, for each party. If persons fall out it is nothing to me; I have but one subject, Christ; and if that will not unite parties, nothing will. The people behaved very kind to me; and if I could have given them satisfaction, on a certain point, no doubt I should have settled among them: but I shrunk from investigation, because I was conscious of having acted imprudently—and, as I knew: I could not be comfortable among them, nor be much credit to them, I silently evaded them all, and left my case with the great Head of the Church, who had pardoned my soul, but told me—from henceforth thou shalt have wars.—While I thus preached for them, they all acted very kind to me, especially a Mrs. Mc. I shall meet some of them in glory, although prejudice will not let them even speak to me on earth. This reflection as pleasant and painful, but I justify them in it. No man upon earth so prone as I am to idolize the creature, or to lean on his puny arm; this, this is the cause of the long contention, and all my disgrace, grief, and woe. No one could look upon my trials, but most ask—is there not a cause? I continued at Chapel-court for some months, and preached at other places; also Bunhill-row, Glass-house Yard, and you can well remember the Lord’s-day at Waltham Abbey. I preached at Westminster, and near Leicester-square. My enemies were busy, but all of no avail: the Lord still led me on, though not without some trials. In this year I was called to endure a new affliction, the loss of a darling daughter, about five or six years of age: these were feelings the most painful, but can never be described. Having no relations in the world, I knew not what it was to lose them by death, and having so little fortitude, I was almost inconsolable. My feelings, when seeing her depart, were such as I had been a stranger to before then. I had seen saint and sinner depart, and had long wept with those that wept, but now it was personal. I had preached at a friend’s house, at Camberwell, occasionally; and the evening before her death, my mind was forcibly struck with, and I preached from, Psalm cxxvi. last verse. When I concluded, and on my road home, it appeared to me as if the text was like leaven working in my mind; it was applied to me. The Lord knew what I should feel that night, and the next day I found my dear girl worse. The nurse called me about half-past three; it was not quite light, the eastern sky became enlightened; a solemn stillness pervaded all nature; I stood by her bed-side, and saw her breathe her last. I trust the morning of her better, her eternal day begun. Happy Mary, that thy Lord called thee home so soon! and never, whilst memory holds her seat, shall I forget thy little voice, the day of thy departure—“Mary will die, and go to see the