I reflected on the interesting and improved nature of _Christian_ friendships, whether formed in palaces or in cottages; and felt thankful that I had so long enjoyed that privilege with the subject of this memoir.

I then indulged a selfish sigh for a moment, on thinking that I could no longer hear the great truths of Christianity uttered by one who had drunk so deep of the waters of the river of life; but the rising murmur was checked by the animating thought: "She is gone to eternal rest--could I wish her back again in this vale of tears ?" At that moment the first sound of a tolling bell struck my ear.

It proceeded from a village church in the valley directly beneath the ridge of a high hill, over which I had taken my way.

It was Elizabeth's funeral knell.
The sound was solemn; and in ascending to the elevated spot over which I rode, it acquired a peculiar tone and character.

Tolling at slow and regular intervals (as was customary for a considerable time previous to the hour of burial), the bell, as it were, proclaimed the blessedness of the dead who die in the Lord, and also the necessity of the living pondering these things, and laying them to heart.