But in all this bustle, he found time to enclose a kind little note to me; showing his sympathy with the sorrow of that summer, in my mother’s illness:—­

’Auckland.  October 3, 1868.

’I add one line, my dear Cousin, to assure you of my prayers being offered for you, now more especially when a heavy trial is upon you and a deep sorrow awaiting you.  May God comfort and bless you!  Perhaps the full experience of such anxiety and the pressure of a constant weight may, in His good Providence, qualify you more than ever to help others by words put into your mouth out of your own heart-felt troubles.

’Yet in whatever form the sorrow comes, there is the blessing of knowing that she is only being mysteriously prepared for the life of the world to come.  There is no real sorrow where there is no remorse, nor misery for the falling away of those we love.  You have, I dare say, known (as I have) some who have the bitterness of seeing children turn out badly, and this is the sorrow that breaks one down.’

It was during these spring days of October, that last Sunday before the final parting, that being hindered by pouring rain from going with the Primate, who was holding a farewell service with the sick at the hospital, Bishop Patteson said the prayers in the private chapel.  After these were ended (Lady Martin says), ’he spoke a few words to us.  He spoke of our Lord standing on the shore of the Lake after His Resurrection; and he carried us, and I think himself too, out of the heaviness of sorrow into a region of peace and joy, where all conflict and partings and sin shall cease for ever.  It was not only what he said, but the tones of his musical voice, and expression of peace on his own face, that hushed us into a great calm.  One clergyman, who was present, told Sir William Martin that he had never known anything so wonderful.  The words were like those of an inspired man.

’Three days after, our dear friends sailed.  I will not dwell on the last service at St. Paul’s Church, when more than four hundred persons received the Holy Communion, where were four Bishops administering in the body of the church and the transepts; but in the chancel, the Primate and his beloved son in the faith were partaking together for the last time of the Bread of Life.

’From the Church we accompanied our beloved friends to the ship, and drove back on a cold, dry evening, a forlorn party, to the desolate house.  But from that time dear Bishop Patteson roused himself from his natural depression (for to whom could the loss be greater than to him?) and set himself to cheer and comfort us all.  How gentle and sympathising he was!  He let me give him nourishing things, even wine—­which he had long refused to take—­because I told him Mrs. Selwyn wished him to have it.  Many hearts were drooping, and he no longer shrank from society, but went about from one to another in the kindest manner.  I do not