After a bad fit of bleeding, I said, "Did you think, dear, you should die, when bringing up the blood?" She said, "No, auntie; I never once thought I should." Our hopes were raised as she got better so quickly, and we thought it might have been only a lodgment. She frequently said, "I don't mind if it is not my lungs." But when she grew rapidly worse, and we called in another doctor, he only confirmed what our own doctor had said--that her case was hopeless. After they were gone, she said, "What did they say, auntie?" I told her it was the lung. She very quietly remarked, "People often live a long time with their right lung gone, don't they?" I said, "Yes," not having the heart to tell her, in her case, it would not be long. One day, turning over the leaves of a hymn-book, I came to the one on the safety of believers, which I read. The first verse is-- "There is a safe and secret place, Beneath the wings divine, Reserved for all the heirs of grace; Oh, be that refuge mine!" She said, "I do like that hymn so much, auntie. I have had such sweet times in my little room. Often when you have sent me up to study for my class, I have had such sweet enjoyment that I could not study." On awaking one night, she said, "Oh, auntie, I have had some beautiful words come with such power, and I keep saying them--'Thou art Mine, as the apple of Mine eye.'" I said, "You could not have a more precious portion. That will do to go to sleep on, won't it?" She said, "Oh, yes!" and soon fell into a peaceful slumber. One night she said, "Auntie, do you ever feel your prayers to be very formal, as if it was merely a habit, and no heart in it?" I said, "Yes, dear; too often." She said, "Do you?" "Oh, yes," I said; "I wish I did not." One morning, going into her room, she said to me, "I have had a nice time. The sun shone brightly in at the window, and those words came, 'So shall the Sun of Righteousness arise with healing in His wings.'" One day she said, "I used to cry so when I was at Gravesend. Do you know what for?" I said, "No; why did you?" She said, "Because I was coming here. I did dislike coming so, and for a long time after I was here I would go and pray, as I thought, very earnestly that mother would send a letter to fetch me away; but that letter never came. No, it never came; and what a mercy it did not! God knew what was best for me. How we can look back and say, 'All was for the best.'" We felt that we should like her to know the state of health she was in, but felt quite unfit to tell her. During a visit, a friend asked her if she wished to get better? On referring to me, after they were gone, she said, "Is it wrong, auntie? Don't you think it is natural for me to wish so, who am young?" I said, "Yes, dear, quite natural." She said, "But I know the Lord will do what He thinks best."