Comfort here, Sir—­turning her head to the Colonel—­comfort my cousin —­see! the blame—­able kindness—­he would not wish me to be happy —­so soon!

Here she stopt for two or three minutes, earnestly looking upon him.  Then resuming, My dearest Cousin, said she, be comforted—­what is dying but the common lot?—­The mortal frame may seem to labour—­but that is all!—­It is not so hard to die as I believed it to be!—­The preparation is the difficulty—­I bless God, I have had time for that—­the rest is worse to beholders, than to me!—­I am all blessed hope—­hope itself.  She looked what she said, a sweet smile beaming over her countenance.

After a short silence, Once more, my dear Cousin, said she, but still in broken accents, commend me most dutifully to my father and mother—­There she stopt.  And then proceeding—­To my sister, to my brother, to my uncles—­and tell them, I bless them with my parting breath—­for all their goodness to me—­even for their displeasure, I bless them—­most happy has been to me my punishment here!  Happy indeed!

She was silent for a few moments, lifting up her eyes, and the hand her cousin held not between his.  Then, O Death! said she, where is thy sting! [the words I remember to have heard in the burial-service read over my uncle and poor Belton.] And after a pause—­It is good for me that I was afflicted!  Words of scripture, I suppose.

Then turning towards us, who were lost in speechless sorrow—­O dear, dear gentlemen, said she, you know not what foretastes—­what assurances—­And there she again stopped, and looked up, as if in a thankful rapture, sweetly smiling.

Then turning her head towards me—­Do you, Sir, tell your friend that I forgive him!—­And I pray to God to forgive him!—­Again pausing, and lifting up her eyes as if praying that He would.  Let him know how happily I die:—­And that such as my own, I wish to be his last hour.

She was again silent for a few moments:  and then resuming—­My sight fails me!—­Your voices only—­[for we both applauded her christian, her divine frame, though in accents as broken as her own]; and the voice of grief is alike in all.  Is not this Mr. Morden’s hand? pressing one of his with that he had just let go.  Which is Mr. Belford’s? holding out the other.  I gave her mine.  God Almighty bless you both, said she, and make you both—­in your last hour—­for you must come to this—­happy as I am.

She paused again, her breath growing shorter; and, after a few minutes —­And now, my dearest Cousin, give me your hand—­nearer—­still nearer —­drawing it towards her; and she pressed it with her dying lips—­God protect you, dear, dear Sir—­and once more, receive my best and most grateful thanks—­and tell my dear Miss Howe—­and vouchsafe to see, and to tell my worthy Norton—­she will be one day, I fear not, though now lowly in her fortunes, a saint in Heaven—­tell them both, that I remember them with thankful blessings in my last moments!—­And pray God to give them happiness here for many, many years, for the sake of their friends and lovers; and an heavenly crown hereafter; and such assurances of it, as I have, through the all-satisfying merits of my blessed Redeemer.