He had made his will in 1807, during the short illness already noticed. But three months later, he assembled his friends, and read to them another will; saying that he had believed such and such one to be his friend, and that now having altered his belief in them, he had also altered his will. From motives of the same kind, he, three months before his death, made another will, which he sealed up and directed to me, and gave it me to keep, observing to me, that I was more interested in it than any body else. He wished to be buried in the Quaker burying ground, and sent for a member of the committee [Willett Hicks] who lived in the neighborhood. The interview took place on the 19th of March, 1809. Paine said, when we were looking out for another lodging, we had to put in order the affairs of our present abode. This was precisely the case with him; all his affairs were settled, and he had only to provide his burying-ground; his father had been a Quaker, and he hoped they would not refuse him a grave; "I will," added he, "pay for the digging of it." The committee of the Quakers refused to receive his body, at which he seemed deeply moved, and observed to me, who was present at the interview, that their refusal was foolish. "You will," said I, "be buried on your farm" "I have no objection to that," said he "but the farm will be sold, and they will dig my bones up before they be half rotten." "Mr. Paine," I replied, "have confidence in your friends. I assure you, that the place where you will be buried, shall never be sold." He seemed satisfied; and never spoke upon this subject again. I have been as good as my word. Last December (1818) the land of the farm having been divided between my children, I gave fifty dollars to keep apart and to myself, the place whereon the grave was. Paine, doubtless, considered me and my children as strangers in America. His affection for us was, at any rate, great and sincere. He anxiously recommended us to the protection of Mr. Emmet, saying to him, "when I am dead, Madam Bonneville will have no friend here." And a little time after, obliged to draw money from the Bank, he said, with an air of sorrow, "you will have nothing left."*