And thankful praise ascended, too,
For mercies, even then,

And Jemmy, with his youthful voice,
Responded his 'Amen.'

And, when they both had risen up
From off that hallowed floor,
The lady with a swelling heart
Tapped gently at the door.

We need not tell what then befell;
But this can truly say,

That theirs was not an empty house
Upon that Christmas Day.

Because the God of providence
Is watching everywhere,

And sending forth His ministers
To answer faithful prayer.

From "Home Words."

A BRIEF MEMOIR OF ANNIE MARIA MASLER,

WHO DIED AT CALNE, DECEMBER 4, 1874, AGED 17. THE subject of this memoir was born of Godfearing parents; therefore was taught in early life the letter of God's truth, and was blest with the example of a Christian life, and the warnings and admonitions of those who sought the temporal and spiritual welfare of their offspring. No doubt dear Annie was often the subject of their ardent prayers at a throne of grace for her spiritual and eternal good. I knew her father for several years, and we have gone forth together on a Lord's-day morning to proclaim the glorious Gospel of the grace of God, dear Annie accompanying us. We have laboured together, and for

each other, in the work of the ministry, and, from the first time I knew this good man to his removal by death, there was not a jar or the least unpleasantness between us, but an esteeming of each other, and a bearing of each other up at the throne of grace. But the labours of my friend soon terminated by his removal by death, October 24th, 1872, just over two years before the death of dear Annie. He left an affectionate widow with six children to mourn their loss, the subject of this memoir being the eldest.

Being so well acquainted with the parents, I continued to watch the movements of dear Annie; but in spite of a parent's prayers, warnings, and admonitions, as she grew, the seeds of the fall began to show themselves in a love of dress and vain companions, and a dislike of parental restraint or warnings.

Early in last summer I was sent for by the request of her mother and herself. I immediately attended to the invitation. I found Annie ill in bed. Approaching her, I said, "My dear girl, did you wish for me to come to see you?" 66 "Yes," she replied; "I am glad you are come to talk to me.' I found her in pain of body and very weak, but did not think at this time that her illness would terminate in death. I spoke to her of the state in which we were all born into this world, and of our growing up in the same, and that her continuing in a state of nature and dying in that state would be awful indeed, and better if she had not been born. I said to her, "I do hope that the dear Lord has taken you from vain companions, and laid you upon a bed of affliction for your spiritual good." She said, "I have had a strong passion for a gay life, and I was anxiously anticipating it. I have felt that I would not be restrained, but that I

would have my own way." I read a portion of God's Word, and by her request spent a few minutes in prayer, begging the Lord the Spirit to open her eyes to give her to see her real state and condition as a sinner, and under the condemnation of a broken law, and her need of deliverance by the Word of Jesus; that He would thus be pleased to answer her father's prayers on her behalf, though now he was slumbering in the ground. I prayed that thus she might be made manifest as a vessel of mercy, and that, whether living or dying, she might show forth the power of God's grace in her soul. I bade her farewell in tears.

Feeling interested in the dear child, I continued to visit her all through her affliction. I must not give an account of all my visits, or it would swell the narrative to too large a bulk.

On one occasion I said, "Would you wish to get well again?" She said, "I have no desire to go back into the world again, but would rather, if prepared, die and go to my dear father, who is gone before me." She said, "When I followed my dear father to the grave, and I took my last farewell of him, I had an impression strike my mind that I should be the next to follow him and be laid with him." I said it mattered not about dying, if prepared; and again spoke to her of the awful consequences of being in one's sins, and under the curse of God's law, and that none but Jesus could deliver. She said, "I know that I am a sinner, and hope that Jesus will prepare me, by washing me in that fountain opened for sin." I was pleased to hear her state those things, but feared there was not depth of sorrow nor fervency of desire.

On one occasion, when sitting by her side all alone, I plainly saw that death was making rapid progress towards her, and that she was

I said, "My

going to be laid in an early grave.
dear girl, death is fast doing its office, and will
shortly lay your poor body silent in its cold em-
braces. Oh, that I could but feel satisfied about
your state, and that I could say that I had hope of
you;" when she with all the strength she possessed
said, "I know, and I have felt, and do feel that I
am a sinner, and I have cried for mercy, and those
words have done me much good-'Christ Jesus
came into the world to seek and to save that which
was lost,' and," she said, "I believe He came to save
me." I said to her, "And what kind of feeling has
such words produced in you towards Him?" "Oh!"
she said, "I do love Him, and I want to praise
Him; but I cannot as I would." I quoted the
following --

"But when this lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave,

Then, in a nobler, sweeter song,

I'll sing Thy power to save;

when to my surprise she stopped me, and with a firm voice said, "It won't be singing, it will be shouting! Oh! I long to be there to bless Him, for His love to one so vile." My heart was made glad to hear such a testimony of the Lord's goodness to her, and that the Lord was again giving testimony of His hearing and answering prayer.

November 17th.-I visited her, and found her very ill, and to all appearance not far from the hour of her removal. Her eyes were growing very dim, her lips were turning very dark. She lay apparently taking no notice of any one. She was unable to speak more than in a whisper. I tried to ascertain the state of her mind, when she whispered and said, "Happy! not afraid to die!" I repeated part of the hymn, " Nothing in my hands I bring,"

66

when she took it up, and said, "Simply to Thy cross I cling." I said, Ah, there is safety there;" when she again whispered, "Nowhere else to look; no other friend but Jesus." I said, “My dear girl, it is solemn work to die;" when she again whispered, "Not afraid!" and, though unable to speak more than in a whisper and at intervals, she quoted the following

"Death lost its sting when Jesus died,

When Jesus left the tomb;
Disarmed, the king of terrors fled,
And felt a mortal wound.

"And now His office is to wait,
Betwixt the saints and sin,
A Porter at the heavenly gate,
To let the pilgrims in.'

I long to be gone! Oh, that He would come and take me to be for ever with Him and my dear father. I long to be gone!" The above was only repeated in short sentences, as her weakness was great. She went off in a doze for some time; then, again opening her dimmed eyes, whispered, “ Give me the paper-cover hymn-book." I gave it to her, when she found out the following, and desired me to read it

"Only waiting till the shadows
Áre a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer
Of the day's last beam is flown.
Till the night of death is faded,
From the heart once full of day;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking
Through the twilight soft and grey.
I am waiting, only waiting,
For the summons to the grave;
And I'm trusting, solely trusting
In almighty power to save.'