"While living in Canada, my eldest daughter, then a girl of ten years of age, rather delicate and of feeble health, had a severe attack of chorea, "St. Vitus's dance." To those who have had any experience in this distressing complaint, nothing need be said of the deep affliction of the household at the sight of our loved one, as all her muscles appeared to be affected, the face distorted with protrusion of the tongue, and the continuous involuntary motions by jerks of her limbs. The ablest medical advice and assistance were employed, and all that the sympathy of friends and the skill of physicians could do were of no avail. She grew worse rather than better, and death was looked to as a happy release to the sufferings of the child, and the anguish of the parents; as the medical men had given as their opinion that the mind of the child would become diseased, and if her life were lengthened, it would be an enfeebled body united to an idiotic mind. "But God was better to us than our most sanguine hopes far better to us than our fears. "In our trouble we thought on God, and asked his help. We knew we had the prayers of some of God's chosen ones. On a certain Sunday morning I left my home to fill an appointment in the Wesleyan chapel in the village of Cooksville, two miles distant. I left with a heavy heart. My child was distressing to look upon, my wife and her sister were worn out with watching and fatigue. It was only from a sense of duty that I left my home that morning. During the sermon God refreshed and encouraged my heart still to trust in him. After the service, many of the congregation tarried to inquire of my daughter's condition, among them an aged saint, Sister Wilson, widow of a Wesleyan preacher, and Sister Galbraith, wife of the class-leader. Mother Wilson encouraged me to 'hope in God,' saying 'the sisters of the church have decided to spend to-morrow morning together in supplication and prayer for you and your family, and that God would cure Ruth.'