In another place, we find him asking Esli,—the wife of Joseph, of whom he had just said, "Her little daughter has died recently, and her heart is broken,"—"When your child died, did you weep and wail as your people do?" and she answered, "No."
Nazloo, of Vizierawa, a pupil who hoped she took Christ for her Saviour in 1849, and graduated in 1853, within less than a year after her conversion was summoned to the death-bed of her uncle; and scarcely had she returned to her studies before she was called to the bedside of her father. For three days she watched with him incessantly, by day and by night. Those who were present were greatly moved by her tender care of him. During the whole of his sickness, she never failed to improve every opportunity to point him to Christ. Even to the last, she begged him to look to the Lamb of God and live. And when he died, with his head resting on her hand, though she had no evidence that her efforts were successful, her wonderful calmness, under so severe a stroke, led many to feel that she possessed a source of consolation to which they were strangers. But her cup was not yet full. A few days passed, and she hastened once more to her afflicted home, to find her mother entering the dark valley. Others wept aloud, but she pointed the dying one to Jesus; and supporting her in her loving arms, she seemed to plant her feet in the cold waters of the river of death, and commit her departing mother into the hands of Him who could bear her safely to the other side. So sensible was her mother of the benefit she and hers had received from the school, that when the teacher came in, she beckoned her to her side, and said, with difficulty, "God is not willing I should be a mother to my daughters any longer. I commit them to you: they are yours." She soon fell asleep, as was hoped, in Jesus. After this, Nazloo was in the school most of the time till her marriage. As a teacher, no one could have been more faithful: her religious experience was very marked, and she labored wisely for souls. She still lives to show how God can make grievous afflictions yield the peaceable fruit of righteousness in his people.
In this connection, we cannot omit another letter, written by Hoshebo to her teacher, in 1860, on the death of her son Absalom. It is dated Saralon, where she and her husband Meerza reside.
DEAR MOTHER: I received your letter just before I received a bitter stroke from the never-erring hand of my heavenly Father. Many thanks for your loving remembrances of me. I cannot reward you for one of a thousand of the good things that you have shown me, so unworthy. I have many thoughts of you, and of those pleasant days that we passed together in that blessed school. I am very sad when I think that perhaps I may never, in this house of my pilgrimage, see your face, which makes others to be exceeding glad.
Dear mother: like a daughter distressed, who would find a little rest by falling into the kind arms of her mother, I come to tell you what has pierced the heart of your poor child. It is true that you are so far from me that I cannot lean on your kind breast, and let you lead me in prayer to the Father who has afflicted me; but with a feeling like that I write you. Beloved, you used to write me that I must take good care of my dear and tender babe, Aweshalom. Perhaps I did not fully do as you told me. But one thing I know: the Lord, who loves little children, was not willing that I should keep him. And I believe that he will take better care of my dear child than I could. You must know that I am deeply wounded and crushed by the death of Aweshalom. My tears cease not. His first birth was October 14, 1858; his second and spiritual one, April 23, 1860. His life with us was a pleasant one, and he made our lives very sweet and delightful; but now he has gone to heaven, while we remain on the earth. He lives the new life, while we die daily. He is strong, while I am weak. He has grown beautiful, in the light and image of the Saviour, while I am pining away. If you have heard what a child he was, you will not wonder at my sickness since his death. My husband is greatly afflicted in the death of this, our first, our only child. We find no comfort except in casting our wounded souls at the feet of the Saviour, who was tempted that he might heal our wounds. It seems, sometimes, as if our comforters were far from us; but our Saviour is very near to help and comfort.
Our work has been as last year. My husband has taught in the Seminary at Seir, coming here to preach on the Sabbath. I have taught a school of eighteen boys and girls here. Before vacation, my babe sickened, and rested in Jesus. Since that time, I have had fever, and am still very weak.
Five in the village, besides ourselves, are communicants. My father and brother are among them. I trust that my mother and brother's wife will soon unite with us. The work of the Lord in the village goes forward better than formerly. I try to talk and pray with the women alone, and they are more ready to have me do it, which makes me to rejoice in the Lord.
Give my loving peace to my dear grandmother Hannah. Though with the eyes of this mortal body we have not seen each other, nor have I any hope that we shall, the Lord her God help me, that we may meet on the blessed hill of Zion above. I believe, my mother, that you will remember your weak, unworthy lamb, when you bow before the throne of mercy and grace. Perhaps this is the last letter you will receive from me, for death seems very near. Receive loving peace from the priest [her husband].
Your true daughter,