She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling incidents of her life.  She ever looked upon the fashions of this world as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements.  In profession of her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with his precious blood.  She offered up her children upon the altar of her heart’s purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important duty of a Christian mother.

Many an adverse wind had she encountered—­that weary voyager on life’s troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, “Peace, be still.”

She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but every word breathed of faith and hope.  On the afternoon before her death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their import: 

  “Jesus can make a dying bed
    Feel soft as downy pillows are,
  While on his breast I lean my head,
    And breathe my life out sweetly there.”

She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see them before her death.  She expressed anxiety for her aged companion, to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.

During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit seemed struggling to depart.

She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two to her attendants, saying to one,

“You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?”

She repeated, “In my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you.”

She lingered till about ten o’clock in the fore-noon, then calling for the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up.  Her son supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay free from the care or burden of life.  Those loving eyes had looked their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside, and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, “in the house of many mansions.”  Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to the necessities of her family, had now ceased their labor, and lay inactive, in their marble whiteness.