As I have already intimated, the fulness of my wife's time was coming on; but the dreadful work of the pestilence saddened the hope which my Rebecca and I cherished. Our neighbours were falling around us; the reaper was busy, and his arms were filled with the sheaf, and few were to bind or to record the number. I was so engaged in my attendance on those of our acquaintance who were ill,—going, as I have said, from house to house, both by day and by night,—that I have often wondered since by what secret miracle my poor strength was enabled to undergo the fatigue and the grief which day after day brought to me, in the removal from the earth of some kind or some early friend.

Rebecca's mother sometimes chided me for the risks I ran; but Rebecca, like myself, having committed our lives into His hands who gave them, were without dread. But as the old lady's acquaintance were one by one carried away, her fears increased, until her alarm grew to such a pitch, that, poor as we were, we advised her to go into the country; and it was a sad sight to see that mother and that daughter rive themselves asunder. Rebecca was calm, for her anchor was on high; but her mother lacked in religious confidence; and her heart being torn between a wish to remain with her daughter in her interesting situation, and a dread of the angel of destruction, she wept bitterly, and complained of her frail fortitude.

But her departure proved less of a misfortune than we at first thought it would be; for I providentially fell in with an elderly, sensible woman, whom I engaged to live with us, and to take care of my wife. She slept with Rebecca, and I established my bed in the garret above.