In her whispering voice, which disease had for some time so nearly hushed, she said, "I shall sing in heaven." Her voice had been the charm of many a pleasant circle. But she added, "I shall no more sing—
'I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger;
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night.'"
And in a moment she added,—
"Of that country to which I am going,
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light."
"Some people," she said, "wish to die in order to get rid of pain. What a motive! I am afraid that sometimes they get rid of it only to renew it. There was—" And here she checked herself, saying, "But I will not mention any name," a feeling of charitableness and tenderness coming over her, as though she might be thought to have judged a dying person harshly.
The day before she died, as I was spending the Sabbath forenoon by her, she breathed out these words:—
"O, how soft that bed must be,
Made in sickness, Lord, by thee!