Like my father, who had died
some years before, she had been a Christian from her early days; a very
happy one; and she continued a Christian to the last. She was one of the
most affectionate and devoted mothers that ever lived. She had eleven
children. The eldest one died when he was twenty-one, after having spent
a number of years, young as he was, as an able and useful minister of
Christ. He died a happy death. The remaining ten were all permitted to
grow up to manhood and womanhood, and my mother had the happiness at one
time, an unspeakable happiness to her, to see them all, with one
exception, devoted to the service of God, and several of them engaged
as preachers of the Gospel. They were joyful days to her when she could
get them all together, as she sometimes did, to sing with her the sweet
hymns of praise and gratitude, of hope and rapture, which had cheered
her so often during the years of her pilgrimage. And now she was gone. I
had seen her some years before when on a visit to my native land. She
know of my skeptical tendencies, and though she had faith in my desire
to be right, she was afraid lest I should miss my way, and entreated me
with all the affectionate tenderness of an anxious mother, not to allow
myself to be carried away from the faith and hope of the Gospel.
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