"I need scarcely tell you not to rely upon any false hopes which friends may hold out to you, who would grieve the more could they see the danger and distress which they thereby occasion. Let me rather entreat you to continue that attention to the interest of your soul which has already been well instructed and fortified against the present crisis. You have to prepare, prisoner at the bar, for a greater trial, a more awful moment; and I hope you will make good use of the short time which remains in preparation for eternity. You appear to have been well assisted hitherto, and the good instruction seems to have fallen upon productive ground. I hope the increase will continue to the day of your death. "It only remains for me to fulfil my duty, by passing the sentence of the court upon you, which is-- "That you be taken from the place where you now stand, back to the place whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and there be hanged by the neck until you be dead; and may God have mercy upon your soul!" At these last words tears of agony overwhelmed many in the court; but Margaret herself seemed to be less overcome by the sentence than by the kind words of the judge. She respectfully curtsied to him and the court, and, in the act of retiring, fell into her father's arms. She was conveyed back to the gaol in a swoon. In the meantime every exertion was made to represent her case favourably to the judge. A petition was signed by many of the grand jury, as well as the petty jury, in her behalf, and strong hopes were entertained of a reprieve. These things were not mentioned to the prisoner, who returned to the cell of condemned felons, to employ her time in "seeking that peace which the world cannot give." A keeper constantly attended her, and a female sat up with her all that night. She requested to have a Bible, and pen, ink, and paper: these were granted her. She did not sleep, but read the Sacred Book, sometimes aloud, sometimes to herself. She also seemed to find great relief in writing to her friends. One letter which she wrote to her uncle, and another to her mistress, on that very night, will best evince the state of her mind and feelings. "MY DEAR UNCLE, "This will reach you to-morrow before you leave Bury. Give my love and best thanks to my aunt and friends who spoke this day in behalf of your unhappy niece; but, when you arrive at Ipswich, be sure and call and thank that dear old gentleman, Doctor Stebbing. I know he feels very much for me, but tell him not to distress himself, as if I were to be lost for ever. Tell him I hope to see him in a better world. He has been very kind to me in those days when I was most forlorn, and my Saviour, who then guided me to him, will give him his reward. For He says, that a cup of cold water given to one of His most poor and wretched children, shall not be forgotten.