Her own Christian life was to me a study from the beginning.  It had heights and depths of its own, which awed me and which I could not fully penetrate.  Jonathan Edwards’ exquisite description of Sarah Pierrepont at the age of thirteen, Mrs. Edwards’ own account of her religious exercises after her marriage, and Goethe’s “Confessions of a Beautiful Soul,” always reminded me of some of its characteristic features.  If my pastoral ministrations gave any aid and comfort to other souls, I can truly say it was all largely due to her.  And as for myself, my debt of gratitude to her as a spiritual helper and friend in Christ was, and is, and ever will be, unspeakable.  The instant I began to know her, I began to feel the cheering influence and uplifting power of her faith.  For more than a third of a century it was the most constant and by far the strongest human force that wrought in my religious life.  Nor was it a human force alone; for surely faith like hers is in real contact with Christ Himself and is an inspiration of His Spirit.  She longed so to live and move and have her being in love to Christ, that nobody could come near her without being straightway reminded of Him.  She seemed to be always saying to herself, in the words of an old Irish hymn:  [17] Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ at my right, Christ at my left, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks to me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.  Such was her constant prayer; and it was answered in the experience of many souls, whose faith was kindled into a brighter flame by the intense ardor of hers.  So long and so closely, in my own mind, was she associated with Christ, that the thought of her still reminds me of Him as naturally as does reading about Him in the New Testament.

The allegory referred to above is here given: 

A benevolent man found a half-starved, homeless, blind beggar-boy in the streets of a great city.  He took him, just as he was, to his own house, adopted him as his own son, and began to educate him.  But the boy learned very slowly, and his face was often sad.  His father asked him why he did not fix his mind more upon his lessons, and why he was not cheerful and happy, like the other children.  The boy replied that his mind was constantly occupied with the fear that he had not been really adopted as a son, and might at any moment learn his mistake.

Father.  But can you not believe me when I assure you that you are my own dear son?

Boy.  I can not, for I can see no reason why you should adopt me.  I was a poor, bad boy; you did not need any more children, for you had a house full of them, and I never can do anything for you.

Father.  You can love me and be happy, and as you grow older and stronger you can work for me.