Previous to her nineteenth birthday (September 27th) she had a return of the bleeding, which again confined her to her bed for a time. We all felt her end might be very near, and would perhaps come suddenly by the rupture of another blood-vessel; therefore we were very anxious she should know what a precarious state she was in. It was, therefore, quite a relief when she said one day, "Auntie, I did not think at one time I should be alive now. I did not think I should live to see my birthday." I said, "I am very glad to hear you say this. I quite thought you were under the impression you would get better. What were your feelings when you thought this?" "Oh," she said, "I felt I could leave it all in the Lord's hands. He would do what was best." There was a sweet resignation to His will at this time; but, after a little while, her bodily strength increasing, she was gradually buoyed up with a hope that she might get better. Knowing from the faithfulness of our doctor that her case was hopeless, we could not participate in that hope. She was most honest in her principles, and could not bear to deceive any one.
One day, as we were sitting alone, she said, "Oh, auntie, you never thought I could deceive you or uncle, did you? But I did." I said, "I am glad you have spoken of this, dear, although I think in your case it was different from many" (knowing that what she alluded to was a private matter). "At any rate, you have our pardon." She said, "What stings of conscience I have had through it! It has quite taken away any feeling of pleasure I may have had; and yet my will was so strong to have my own way, I could not give it up.[10] I have not deceived you in anything else, auntie. You believe me, don't you?" I said, "Indeed I do."
A very dear friend calling to see her one afternoon, who had not seen her since she was called by divine grace, said in the course of conversation, "Well, my dear, there are times and seasons, I have no doubt, when you can say you would not have it otherwise, but that it was good for you to be afflicted?" She turned very red, paused, then said with her usual candour, "I cannot say that, Miss G——." After her departure, she said, "Auntie, I wish to be submissive to the will of the Lord, but I felt I could not say that I have ever had a time when I would not have it otherwise."
A friend calling one evening, spoke in a very solemn manner of those who had a false enjoyment, and put some close questions to her. She said little, but after he was gone seemed much put out, and said, "I know I cannot talk like those he visits. I expect he thinks there is nothing in me. What do you say, auntie?" I said, "He was certainly very searching, my dear, but I don't think you understood him. He is so afraid of any one resting on a wrong foundation, and knowing what a very delicate state of health you were in, he was anxious to know if you were resting on Christ, and Christ alone, for salvation." "Well," she said, "I felt dumb. I expect he thinks very badly of me."
Her strength seemed to go daily. As Christmas drew near, she said, "Auntie, let everything go on the same as it has done other years. Make no difference for me. Invite your friends for the day as usual." But we felt it a very solemn time, and hard work to put on the appearance of cheerfulness, feeling sure, ere another Christmas came, her place would be vacant, and she in eternity.
Her dear little cousin was a great sufferer at times all through her illness, and it became apparent that she, too, was fast hastening home. I said to Carrie one day, "I used to feel, dear, that I should have you to leave to see after our dear Flo, if we were taken, but it seems the Lord's will to take you, and I sometimes think she won't be long." She answered, "No, I don't think she will; but she will be safe whenever she goes."
We could have but few quiet times together after this, through the serious illness and death of her dear cousin, but she was wonderfully buoyed up at this time with the assurance that nothing was too hard for the Lord, and apparently rested upon it, for when I was alluding to her sad state of health, she said, "I know I am beyond the power of earthly physicians to cure, auntie; but, you know, nothing is too hard for the Lord."
After the death of her cousin, she was most anxious to have her mourning made, which we felt sorry for, as it seemed such a clinging to life; but we found it was only a natural desire to show her love for her dear little cousin. At any rate, the wish gradually left her, and all things of an earthly nature lost their charm.
One day she said, "I have no wish to join in anything now. I don't feel to want to go and witness anything. That is a blessing the Lord only can give, isn't it?" I said, "Yes," knowing what great delight she used to take in many things, and how active she had been, especially in anything connected with the chapel or Sabbath School.
After this darkness set in. The Word of God was as a sealed Book, and she had no spiritual enjoyment, which she much deplored; also, the visits of our dear Pastor and her uncle failed to give any comfort.