some few minutes before Mr. Clare called, who was surprised and shocked, both at her death, which he did not expect would have happened so soon, and at the circumstances connected with it, all which were faithfully detailed to him, by one of the standers by, who concluded her narration by stating she died happy, and was now in peace. On the following Sunday Mr. White gave an account of the whole occurrence in his evening discourse as an instance of sudden conversion, and called upon his hearers to be thankful that another saint had been added to the hosts of the blessed in heaven.

CHAPTER VI.

FROM thence, far off he unto him did shew
A little path, that was both steep and long,

Which to a goodly citty led his vew ;

Whose wals and towres were builded high and strong,
Of perle and precious stone, that earthly tong

Cannot describe, nor wit of man can tell,

Too high a ditty for my simple song!

The citty of the GREATE KING hight it well,

Wherein eternal peace and happinesse doth dwell.

SPENSER.

THE circumstances connected with his wife's death were very painful to Mr. Simmonds. He had affectionately loved his wife, although well aware of her many failings; but in addition to the natural sorrow which her death caused him, he was greatly grieved as well as shocked at all that had accompanied that event. He was present at the vicar's first interview with her, and was much pleased at the plain and open way in which Mr. Clare had spoken. He felt it was right at such a time that nothing relating to her spiritual welfare should be concealed, from any false motives of delicacy, and fully coincided iu all the remarks which the vicar had made. At the second inter

view he was not present, but had heard enough of it from his wife to feel sure that she had said some things to the vicar with which he could not be well pleased. He was also absent from home at the time when Mr. White was sent for, and only arrived to hear the termination of his prayers, and to witness the effect which was produced upon his wife's mind and feelings by the excitement to which she had been subjected.

"I am scarcely able," he observed to the vicar, in a conversation with him on the day following his wife's death," I am scarcely able to think upon it. It is not her death, although that is painful enough, but it is not that which causes the anguish I suffer,-it is the thought that she has left the world as she has done. GOD knows—indeed, with grief I confess it-that I am a great and a grievous sinner, and therefore do not speak as I do from any idea of superiority on my own part; but it is true that she has not lived of late as she ought to have done, and if, as you often have told us, the best of men have need of deep and heartfelt repentance for their sins, how can I dare to think that she should need none? I was thankful, sir, that you pressed repentance so much upon her as you did; I have often spoken to her on the subject, and her idea was, that it interfered with the freedom of the Gospel, and was unnecessary for a believer in CHRIST to practise. I was, therefore, very glad to hear you urge her to it, and had hopes that what you said would have convinced her that she was wrong in her idea, and that she must repent, as well as others, or would perish. Ah! sir; I did not think she was so near her end, or I should have begged you to say more to her than you did. You know that on the morning when she died, she sent for Mr. White to pray by her, that he might get for her a feeling of assurance, as they call it, which if she got she felt sure she should be saved. She knew, poor thing, that her end was at hand. I just came in when Mr. White was finishing his prayers, but they were not like the Church prayers. He was speaking very loud and quick, and telling her to call on the

Name of JESUS, and that she would feel Him to be her SAVIOUR, and need not fear. Poor thing! she felt what she wished to feel before she died, but I did not like it, and I told her so. I knew that neither of us had lived as we ought to have lived, and that we had both of us much greater need to call upon God for mercy than for feelings of assurance; and, as well as I was able, I begged her after Mr. White had left, to think of her sins, and beg GOD, for JESUS CHRIST's sake, to forgive her. She said little, but that she was satisfied now, and should die happy, as she was certain she was going to glory. I prayed much by her, and thought once or twice of sending for you, but I knew she would not like it, and so I let it pass until it was too late. O sir! a death-bed repentance is a dreadful thing, but a death without repentance is more dreadful still.'

It was evident to all around him that John Simmonds was much affected by the occurrences which had lately taken place in his family; his time was chiefly spent at home in reading, or conversing with some neighbours upon serious and religious topics, to which his mind was always tending. Mr. Clare had called upon him very frequently since his wife's death, and had been much pleased with the change which was evidently taking place in his mind. On one of these visits of the vicar, when Simmonds appeared to be more than commonly low spirited, Mr. Clare was much startled by his asking him if he thought there was any forgiveness for such a sinner as he was?" Why do you ask the question?" enquired the vicar. "Because, sir," he answered, "I can never forgive myself for having been the cause of all the sin and misery which has fallen upon my wife and daughter. What, sir, if they should be shut out from heaven, and doomed to perdition, and all in consequence of my neglect. My wife's case is not so bad, although bad enough is that: but I did occasionally tell her she was not doing right, and then she answered as was too true, that neither was I as good as I should be. You call yourself a Churchman,' she would say, 'but I'm sure you dont live

better than other folks; so I dont think there can be much in going to church, if you dont learn better things.' If I had lived better, I really believe she would have done so too, and then she would have gone with me to church, and not have died in the dreadful way in which she did, -I'm much to blame in this. But my daughter, poor Esther! it is now some time since she died, but I scarcely dare think of it. I fancy I see her now, and hear her sad cries just as I heard them when we went to bring her from Joseph Freethink's house, and then I think to myself that all that misery might have been spared, and she might have been alive to comfort me in my old age, and her mother too, for I believe some how or other, poor Esther's death brought on that of her mother, I often think that she might have comforted us both, if I had acted towards her as a father should have done; but I left it all to her mother, and her mother was too hasty and too indulgent to her, and so it all came on by degrees as you saw it, till she died-I scarcely dare speak the word-an infidel. O! if she is condemned to misery for ever, through my negligence, how can I expect to escape? And O! how can I ever bear to meet her again at the judgment-seat of CHRIST ?"

Mr. Clare endeavoured to calm his mind as much as he felt justifled in doing, for he could not but allow that there was much cause for self-condemnation in the course which Simmonds had pursued; but he knew that his Master's will was not to break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax; his endeavour, therefore, was to calm his mind, and to bring him gradually to that self-abased and humble frame of heart, which became a person under such circumstances. Upon these subjects they had frequent conversations together, and by degrees Simmonds was brought to perceive that his proper course was not to despair, but to seek for God's mercy through CHRIST with penitence and contrition.

"I dare not," said he, in one of his conversations with the vicar," I dare not say I shall be saved; I feel my sins to be of so deep a nature, that I can hardly venture

to expect forgiveness; but God is very gracious and merciful, and the merits of CHRIST are all-powerful,—so, although when I look at myself, and all that I have done, I well-nigh despair; yet, when I look up to God and CHRIST, I venture to hope. I often think of those beautiful words, Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool;' (Isa. i. 18;) and that wonderful account in the book of Revelations, where the servants of God are described as arrayed in 'white robes,' and who are spoken of as having come out of great tribulation, and having washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the LAMB.' But such a lot, alas! how can it be mine? how can I expect it when I think of poor Esther? O sir, that is a fearful text,- Needs must that offences come, but woe unto him through whom they

It was with thoughts such as these that poor Simmonds set himself now in earnest to do that which during life he had professed to do, but had, as we have seen, most sadly neglected, namely, to live as a member of CHRIST'S Church should live. He was now a regular attender at the daily as well as the Sunday services of the Church, and was always to be seen at the sacrament of the LORD'S Supper; the vicar also gave him a class in his Sunday school, where he laboured as patiently and as hard as any that were there. "I have been the cause," he said, "of leading others astray; let me endeavour now to do what I can to bring some to CHRIST. I am come, sir," said he to Mr. Clare, when offering to undertake this labour of love,- I am come, sir, to offer my time and services to CHRIST's Church, and to tell you that I am prepared to do any thing that you may think fit to set me to."Mr. Clare knew that he was in earnest now in what he said, and made him, as was said, one of his teachers. To this was shortly added the office of a district visitor, that is, the vicar appointed a certain district of his parish, in which he was to ascertain who at any time were sick or distressed in mind or body, and let the vicar or his curate