As the mother of a large family, Mrs. Fry endeavored to do her duty faithfully and lovingly.  Twelve sons and daughters were given to her, trained by her more or less, with reference not only to their temporal welfare, but their spiritual also.  In all the years of motherhood many cares attached themselves to her.  Illness, the deaths of near relatives, and of one little child, the marriage of some of her children out of the Society of Friends, losses in business, and consequent reduction of household comforts and pleasures, the censure which sometimes followed her most disinterested acts, and the exaggerated praise of others, all combined to try her character and her spirit.  Through it all she moved and lived, like one who was surrounded with an angelic company of witnesses; desirous only of laying up such a life-record that she could with calmness face it in “that day for which all other days are made.”

One after another the little fledglings came to the home-nest, to be cared for, trained up, and fitted for their peculiar niches in life.  But in 1815, a new sorrow came to the fireside; the angel reaper Death cut down the little Elizabeth, the seventh child, nearly five years of age, and the special darling of the band.  Her illness was very short, scarcely lasting a week; but even during that illness her docile, intelligent spirit exhibited itself in new and more endearing phases.  Death was only anticipated during the last few hours of life, and when the fatal issue appeared but too certain the parents sat in agonized silence, watching the darling whom they could not save.  Mrs. Fry begged earnestly of the Great Disposer of life and death that he would spare the child, if consonant with His holy will; but when the end came, and the child had passed “through the pearly gates into the city” she uttered an audible thanksgiving that she was at last where neither sin, sorrow, nor death could have any dominion.  No words can do justice to this event like her own, written in her journal at that time.  The pages recall all a mother’s love and yearning tenderness, together with a Christian’s strong confidence:—­

It has pleased Almighty and Infinite Wisdom to take from us our most dear and tenderly-beloved child little Betsy, between four and five years old.  In receiving her, as well as giving her back again, we have, I believe, been enabled to bless the Sacred Name.  She was a very precious child, of much wisdom for her years, and, I can hardly help believing, much grace; liable to the frailty of childhood, at times she would differ with the little ones and rather loved her own way, but she was very easy to lead though not one to be driven.  She had most tender affections, a good understanding for her years, and a remarkably staid and solid mind.  Her love was very strong, and her little attentions great to those she loved, and remarkable in her kindness to servants, poor people, and all animals; she had much feeling