the bright assurance of acceptance which he so fully enjoyed. Oh, may the calling away of this promising young friend, warn us to be ready, and cause us to ponder well the word of Him who says, "My ways are not as your ways, nor my thoughts as your thoughts." "Who by searching can find out God ?" "His ways are unsearchable and his paths past finding out. H. C.

MEMOIR OF LIZZY PARSONS,

DAUGHTER OF THE LATE BENJAMIN PARSONS.

This beloved child died on the 8th of January, 1845. From the published Memoir some extracts shall be given to illustrate the depth of that grief that fell like a storm over the whole of the household.

"The conversation and prayers," says Mr. Parsons, in the Memoir "of the Rev. Mr. Backhouse, on the last Sabbath in November, were greatly blessed to her, and completely removed from her mind the fear of death. Ever afterwards she was perfectly cheerful, she felt that Christ loved her, and that she was safe in his arms. If you said 'Lizzy, does Christ love you?' 'O yes,' was her answer. 'Why do you think so?' 'Because he died for me,' was her emphatic reply." She seemed not to have a

doubt or fear; she believed that God was faithful. Her parents had never broken promise, and she felt persuaded that the Lord Jesus would be as faithful to his word as they had been to theirs. She had often tasted the sweetness of a mother's love, and she knew that Jesus was ten thousand times more kind, and, therefore, that she must be safe in his arms. A friend, generally distinguished for strong faith, and not at all intending to discourage her, happened to say, 'perhaps you may see your father in heaven.' The next day, Lizzy said, 'Mamma, what did such a one mean by saying perhaps. Did she mean that I should not go to heaven?' She trusted the Saviour with the sweet confidence of a little child, and she had no idea of there being any perhaps in connexion with the promises of such a faithful Friend.

"About a month before her departure, we thought she was dying, and she heard us hint as much. The next day she said to her mother, 'I felt so unhappy last night, lest I should die before I opened my mind and told you how happy I am. I know you feel anxious about me, and that it has been wrong in me not to assure you I am happy.'

She then stated that in consequence of having given herself to Christ, she could not find words to express her happiness in the prospect of death.

The week after, her mother said, "It was this day week you told me you were happy; are you as happy now as you were then ?" She answered, "I am much more so, because I know more of Christ."

She made preparations for her funeral with all the calmness of a philosopher; spoke of her coffin, shroud, and grave, with a complacency that made others weep.

To her, these last accoutrements of mortality had no terror. Death was the gate to life and heaven. Long before death came she had settled everything with both worlds.

Some time before her illness commenced, she had rcpeatedly, at family worship, played on the piano "Rousseau's Dream," and the "Sicilian Mariner's," to the hymns,

and

"Guide me, O thou great Jehovah !"

"Come, thou fount of every blessing !" These hymns and tunes were sung again and again, that the younger children might learn them. It was little thought at the time that we were doing what would be her solace on a dying bed. But these beautiful hymns were her songs and delight during the hours of affliction, and to the day of her death, the verses

and

"Here I raise my Ebenezer,"

"Oh! to grace how great a debtor."

were precious to her.

She requested the Sabbath before she died to be left alone, and supplied with pencil and paper, when she wrote the following note which she concealed in her mamma's writing-case. It was addressed, " To my very dear Mamma,” and is a beautiful example of that gratitude and affection for which she was distinguished :

"Dear Mamma,—

"I assure you I cannot express my gratitude sincerely enough for the kindness you have shown to me since my illness, and it is my daily prayer that you may be supported to the end. I feel that my prayers have been answered, and I hope God will go on to answer them. Accept my sincere thanks for your kindness, and believe me to remain, "Your ever, ever, ever, loving daughter,

"Lizzy."

On the evening of the day on which she wrote these lines, she said to her mother, "I expect to spend the first Sunday in the new year in heaven." On the following Wednesday she departed to her eternal home. About noon of that day, she was seized with the pains of death, which lasted nearly three hours. Her father was from home, and she was afraid he would not be present to receive her last farewell, but on his entering the room, she literally shouted for joy.

During her anguish she often told us that "all her pain was in her body;" that "all was peace in her mind." At three o'clock she had triumphed; she enjoyed repose of body and of spirit; she frequently pressed our hands or significantly bowed her head, to assure us she was happy. The serenity of heaven sat upon her countenance, the faithful index of that bliss which was gladdening her heart. With some effort, a little before she breathed her last, she articulated "Send for my sisters." They came. With her feeble hand she pointed to her lips, to receive the parting kiss; she beckoned to her brother to kiss her twice; and then with an affectionate wave of the hand, bade them farewell. She made a sign to her surrounding friends to give her the last salutation. She had now done with earth. The prayer of David had long been a favourite of hers, "Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit;" and also that of Stephen, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!" For some time, with clasped hands, and evident fervour of soul, she was wrapped in devotion, committing us and herself into the hands of the Saviour. Having ended her prayer, she unclasped her hands, and at half-past three o'clock breathed her last, leaving her mortal remains in the hands of her father, but her soul in the arms of Jesus. Thus ended the earthly career of this lovely child. Though only eleven years old, yet almost a woman in stature and mental development, and made by the grace of God, a seraph in benevolence, purity, and devotion. We view her now as an inhabitant of another sphere, who visited us for a few short years, blessed us with her presence, and then returned home.

"Dying friends are angels, sent on messages of love;

For us they sicken, and for us they die."

The above sketch, we felt on reading it to be so exquisitely beautiful, that we could not refrain from transcribing it for the edification of the readers of the Juvenile Companion.

E. M.

THE DYING HOPE OF A LITTLE INDIAN BOY.

NEARLY twenty years ago there lived on the shores of one of the vast lakes of North America an old Indian and his wife, with eight or nine sons and daughters. They were "children of the forest," whose fathers had once been entire masters of the land, but where they were only allowed to dwell. They sometimes lived in great plenty and sometimes in great want; but they had begun to plant potatoes and Indian corn, and these, added to what they got by hunting and fishing, were sufficient for their simple wants, while the sale of sugar made from maple trees in the spring supplied them with clothing. This family were as happy as many whose means of life are much greater; for, if their comforts were but few, their desires were also few. The mother of this family began to feel a concern about her soul. She was (making allowance for her heathen ignorance) an upright, industrious, and peaceable woman. She never joined her husband, as many women did, in making use of the strong "fire-water" of the white trader. She felt she wanted something which she did not possess. She used to gaze at the stars, and think that she had been made for something more than she now was, but what that was she did not know.

While her mind was in this state she heard that a man with a long black robe had come to their forests, who had good words to tell them. She met him, and listened to what he told her. He was a Romish priest. She now thought, "This is what I have been longing for; this is surely what I want." But God had better things in store for her. When she went home she told her Indian husband what she had heard, and asked him if they had not better join those who were giving themselves up to this new teacher. The old man at once said, "No; that teacher has come from a country with which we have nothing to do." He had heard that, at a new settlement which their great mother the queen was making for them, an English