was never publicly accused; partly because there was no evidence against her, and partly because it was supposed that if she did commit the crime, it must have been owing to aberration of mind.  But she became aware of the whisperings against her, and the consciousness of being an object of suspicion, combined with the mysterious disappearance of her child, cast a heavy cloud over her life, and made her appear more and more unlike her former self.  This she confided to her clergyman, in the interview shortly preceding her death; and she likewise told him that the young man, to whom she had been engaged, had never forgiven her for not marrying him.

A few weeks after her decease, this young man confessed that he had stolen the babe.  He had followed the mother, unobserved by her, and had seen her lay the sleeping infant on its bed of leaves.  As he gazed upon it, a mingled feeling of jealousy and revenge took possession of his soul.  In obedience to a sudden impulse, he seized the babe, and carried it off hastily.  He subsequently conveyed it to a distant village, and placed it out to nurse, under an assumed name and history.  The child was found alive and well, at the place he indicated.  Thus the mother’s innocence was made clearly manifest to the world, as the Quaker preacher had predicted at her funeral.

I often heard Friend Hopper relate this anecdote, and he always said that he could vouch for the truth of it; and for several other similar things in connection with the ministry of his friend Arthur.

A singular case of inward perception likewise occurred in the experience of his own mother.  In her Diary, which is still preserved in the family, she describes a visit to some of her children in Philadelphia, and adds:  “Soon after this, the Lord showed me that I should lose a son.  It was often told me, though without sound of words.  Nothing could be more intelligible than this still, small voice.  It said, Thou wilt lose a son; and he is a pleasant child.”

Her son James resided with relatives in Philadelphia, and often went to bathe in the Delaware.  On one of these occasions, soon after his mother’s visit, a friend who went with him sank in the water, and James lost his own life by efforts to save him.  A messenger was sent to inform his parents, who lived at the distance of eight miles.  While he staid in the house, reluctant to do his mournful errand, the mother was seized with sudden dread, and heard the inward voice saying, “James is drowned.”  She said abruptly to the messenger, “Thou hast come to tell me that my son James is drowned.  Oh, how did it happen?” He was much surprised, and asked why she thought so.  She could give no explanation of it, except that it had been suddenly revealed to her mind.

I have heard and read many such stories of Quakers, which seem too well authenticated to admit of doubt.  They themselves refer all such cases to “the inward light;” and that phrase, as they understand it, conveys a satisfactory explanation to their minds.  I leave psychologists to settle the question as they can.