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forgotten, and went to rest in charity with the whole world, and at peace in our own souls..

Oh! my forgiving child ! interrupted Mr. Bragwell, sobbing, and didst thou really pray for thy unnatural father, and lie down in rest and peace? Then, let me tell thee, thou waft better off than thy mother and I were. But no more of this; go on.

Whether my father-in-law had worked be. yond his strength, in order to support me and my child, I know not, but he was taken dan gerously ill. While he lay in this state, we received an account that my husband was dead in the West-Indies of the yellow-fever, which has carried off such numbers of our country-men ; we all wept together, and prayed that his awful death might quicken usin preparing for our own. This shock, joined to the fatigue of nursing her fick husband, foon brought my poor mother to death's door. I nursed them both, and felt a satisfaction in giving them all I had to beftow, my attendance, my tears, and my prayers. I, who was once lo nice and so proud, fo disdainful in the midst of plenty, and so impatient un. der the smallest inconvenience, was now enabled to glorify God by my activity and my sub. miffion. Though the forrows of my heart were enlarged, I cast my burthen on him who cares for the weary and heavy laden. After having watched by these poor people the whole night, I sat down to breakfast on my dry crust and coarse dish of tea, without a murmur; my

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greatest grief was, left I should bring away the infection to my dear boy. I prayed to know what it was my duty to do between my dying parents, and my helpless child. To take care of the sick and aged, feemed to be my duty. So I offered up my child to him who is the father of the fatherless, and he spared him to me. · The chearful piety with which these good people breathed their last, proved to me, that the temper of mind with which the pious poor commonly meet death, is the grand compensa•' tion made them by Providence for all the hardships of their inferior condition. If they have had few joys and comforts in life already, and have still fewer hopes in store, is not all fully made up to them by their being enabled to leave this world with stronger desires of heaven, and without those bitter regrets after the good things of this life, which add to the dying tortures of the worldly rich ? To the forlorn and deftitute death is not terrible, as it is to him who fits at eafe in his poffeffions, and who fears that this night his soul shall be required of him.

Mr. Bragwell felt this remark more deeply than his daughter meant he should. He wept and bade her proceed.

I followed my departed parents to the same grave, and wept over them, but not as one who had no hope. They had neither houses nor lands to leave me, but they left me their bible, their blessing, and their example, of which I humbly trust I fhall feel the benefits when all the riches

mily call wickedlynt than in

of this world shall have an end. Their few ef. fects, consisting of some poor houfehold goods, and some working-tools, hardly sufficed to pay their funeral expences. I was soon attacked with the same fever, and saw myself, as I thought, dying the second time; my danger was the same, but my views were changed. I now saw eternity in a more awful light than I had done before, when I wickedly thought death might be gloomily called upon as a refuge from every common trouble. Though I had still reason to be humbled on account of my fin, yet, through the grace of God, I saw Death stripped of his fting, and robbed of his terrors through him, who loved me, and had given himself for me ; and in the extremity of pain, my soul rejoiced in God my Saviour.

I recovered, however, and was chiefly supported by the kind clergyman's charity. When I felt myself nourished and cheered by a little tea or broth, which he daily sent me from his own slender provision, my heart smote me, to think how I had daily sat down at home to a plentiful dinner, without any sense of thankful. ness for my own abundance, or without enquiring whether my poor fick neighbours were starving; and I forrowfully remembered, that what my poor sister and I used to waste through daintiness, would now have comfortably fed myself and child. Believe me, my dear mother, a laboring man who has been brought low by a fever, might often be restored to his work some

weeks fooner, if on his recovery he was nourisha ed and strengthened by a good bit from a far. mer's table. Less than is often thrown to a fa. vorite spaniel would suffice, so that the expence would be almost nothing to the giver, while to the receiver it would bring health, and strength, and comfort.

By the time I was tolerably recovered, I was forced to leave the house. I had no human prospect of subsistence. I humbly asked of God to direct my steps, and to give me entire obedience to his will. I then cast my eyes mournfully on my child, and though prayer had relieved my heart of a load which without it would have been intolerable; my tears flowed fast, while I cried out in the bitterness of my foul, How many hired fervants of my father have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hun. ger. This text appeared a kind of answer to my prayer, and gave me courage to make one more attempt to soften you in my favor. I resolved to set out dire&tly to find you, to confess my disobedience, and to beg a scanty pittance, with which I and my child might be meanly supported in some distant country, where we should not dis. grace our more happy relations. We set out and travelled as fast as my weak health and poor George's little feet and ragged shoes would per. mit. I brought a little bundle of such work and necessaries as I had left, by selling which we subsisted on the road. I hope, interrupted Bragwell, there were no cabbage-nets in it ? At

a great rellittle cheap a water," wh!

lealt said her mother, I hope you did not sell them near home. No; I had none left, said. Mrs. Incle or I should have done it. I got ma. ny a lift in a waggon for my child and my bun. die, which was a great relief to me. And here I cannot help saying, I wish drivers would not be too hard in their demands, if they help a poor fick traveller on a mile or two ; it proves a great relief to weary bodies and naked feet; and such little cheap charities may be considered as “ the cup of cold water," which, if given on right grounds, “ shall not lose its reward." Here Bragwell fighed, to think that when mount: ed on his fine bay mare, or driving his neat chaise, it had never once crossed his mind that the poor way-worn foot traveller was not equal. ly at his ease, or that shoes were a necessary ac. commodation. Those who want nothing are apt to forget how many there are who want every thing.-Mrs. Incle went on : I got to this village about seven this evening, and while I fat on the church-yard wall to rest and meditate how I should make myself known at home, I saw a funeral; I enquired whose it was, and learnt it was my sister's. This was too much for me. I funk down in a fit, and knew nothing that happened to me from that moment, till I found myfelf in the workhouse with my father and Mr. Worthy.

Here Mrs. Incle stopped. Grief, shaîne, pride and remorse, had quite overcome Mr. Bragwell. He wept like a child; and said he hoped his

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