I was very religious when I was a young child. I was the only daughter, and my father brought us up most strictly in all the outward forms of church-attendance and strict regard to religious duties.

When I was eighteen or nineteen I was a Sunday-school teacher, and visited the poor as a matter of course. I was very anxious to do my duty, and exceedingly conscientious as to my responsibilities at home with my brothers and my father. On the whole, I was tolerably satisfied with myself, especially when I was toiling in religious duties. But there came an awakening, to me that entirely changed all my thoughts and feelings, and broke up all my fancied security.

A stranger-lady came to lodge in the street in which we lived. She was quite alone, very handsomely dressed, and very sad-looking. In a quiet country town, you know, the appearance of such a stranger excites some curiosity and remark. Occasionally I saw this lady come into the place of worship we attended, and as I walked down the street to go to my Sunday-school, I frequently saw her sitting alone by her window. We found that her husband was a Frenchman, and that they were separated; but no one knew more, and a sort of romance gathered round her in my girlish mind. We had never met or exchanged a word, and imagine my amazement when one day a messenger came to my father's door asking to see me, and on my appearance, telling me that the lady lodging at Mrs. –'s was very dangerously ill, and particularly wished to see me.

" To see me! " I said. " I think it must be a mistake. I do not know her."

"Oh, no," replied the girl; "its no mistake, miss, for the lady has said many times, ' Fetch that young lady who passes by on Sundays to the school;' and I know she means you, miss, for she told me where you lived. The little baby was born last night, and the doctor says the poor lady cannot live."

When I got into her room, I found her in a state of distressing excitement.

" Have they told you that I am dying?" the lady asked. " Yes, I am dying, and I don't know how to get ready to die. I sent for you. I am sure you will excuse me, because I know you are so very religious. I am sure you can tell me what I want to know. Tell me, I beg you, as quickly as you can, what I must do to get ready."

Never can I forget the scene. The poor woman flushed and agitated, her beautiful hair all dangling and wet, her pillows and bed-clothes tossed about in disorder, no one belonging to her to speak a word of help or comfort. I could hardly control my voice to say, " You must pray to God. You have read the Bible? You know what He says?" but she caught up my words with a sharp cry of pain:"I cannot pray, I am too ill, and I do not know how. I cannot read the Bible, and I do not know it. Oh, tell me yourself what I must do. Pray for me, oh, pray for me."
Can you wonder that I burst into tears? I had never prayed with any one in my life. I could remember nothing that I thought could possibly be of any comfort or good to this poor dying woman. More than that, a sudden flash of light seemed to reveal to my inmost soul that I myself was building my house upon the sand, and that all my religiousness was nothing at all to stand in such a storm as this.

" Oh," I said to her eagerly, " let me fetch the minister to you."

"No!" she answered; " I do not know him. I do not want him. I want a woman to speak to me, like a sister, or a mother."

I thought of the minister's wife. Ah, no, she was not one I could imagine in such a scene as this. Then I remembered, with a sudden feeling of inexpressible relief, another lady, wise, loving, gentle, earnest-one of those who bore her Master's name written on her forehead, whose own name I had heard many a time uttered in accents of love and gratitude from the poor and the sorrowful.

" I know a dear lady," I said, " who could help you. I am sure she would. I will go to her directly."

"Oh!" said the dying lady, with a look of reproach that sank deep into my inmost heart, " I wanted you to tell me. I have seen you so often going to church and to the school. I often, often wished I was like you; I thought you were so very religious." She sighed bitterly, and leaned back exhausted.

I escaped, crept down stairs, hearing the feeble wail of a little infant as I passed, and hastened to the house of Mrs. –, rushing into her presence with my agitated and half-incoherent story, much to her surprise. " Do come directly, dear Mrs. —," I said; " there is not a moment to lose! Oh, come back with me now! "

" My dear Margaret," she answered, " I will come as soon as I can; but it cannot be immediately. Go back and sit by the poor lady until I come. Try to be very calm and quiet with her, and to soothe her as well as you can. I daresay I shall be with her a quarter of an hour after you."

I was not quite pleased at this, and felt impatient and astonished. Ah, I knew in after days why she could not come on such an errand without seeking wisdom and help in one quarter of an hour with the Master.

I went back, and sat quietly by the bedside, where my poor invalid lay in feverish sleep. As I sat there, a realization, such as I never felt before, of the uncertainty of life and the nearness of eternity came to me. My own past life, with all its " religiousness," looked utterly worthless, and I knew that I had yet to begin with the humble cry, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"-yet to be " born again," and to enter as a little child into the kingdom.

My heart was heavy for the poor young mother, and my busy fancy tried to guess her story, while I shuddered to think how nearly it was closing, and longed for help and comfort for her.

A low knock at the door, quiet footsteps on the stairs, and my friend came in. Softly as she entered, the dying lady awoke, and her painful agitation returned.
Tenderly as a mother my friend went to her, smoothed her pillows, arranged her bed-clothes, and with willing gentleness asked and used permission to brush her hair and make her comfortable.

I looked on in surprise, for I had expected her to be in haste to read and to pray. I was learning lessons useful to me ever since. I was sent for warm water, and we sponged her face and hands. In a few minutes she was resting with a very different expression on her face, refreshed and peaceful, as if reflecting the quiet restful ness of the face of her new friend; but the bright, eager eyes were turned on her with a wistful, imploring gaze that went to her heart.

"And now," she said, "dear friend, you want to know how to rest in the Lord Jesus, so that you may be safe in His arms if He should see it best to call you home? Our time is very precious; we will ask Him to show it all to you Himself." And we knelt by the bedside.

I cannot tell you any thing about that simple, urgent prayer, except that it came home to my heart with a power that must have been that of the Holy Spirit who inspired it. When it was ended, I could not trust myself to stay in the room. I thought, too, that it would be better to leave them alone together; and I went down to the kitchen, where at least I felt myself at home in making some gruel, nursing the baby, and helping to restore some degree of order to the distracted little household.

Before the next morning dawned the lady passed away, looking in faith and hope to a crucified Saviour, as we humbly believed,-her hand clasped in hers who had brought her the message of peace. As for me, 1 did not find peace at once; for weeks, and even months, my burden only grew more and more heavy, and my heart more sad. When I could no longer keep my anxiety to myself, my father and brothers were amazed, and began to fear that my mind was affected. Again and again they said to me,-

" But you have always been so religious, Margaret; why should you be troubled about such things?"

They made parties of pleasure for me; but wherever I went I carried my burden, and every thing failed, until God sent me a true friend, and through his blessing, and the guidance I then received, I was led to give up my own doings, and found true peace in believing in Jesus, coming to Him as a guilty, unprofitable servant, just as I was. If I had not been summoned to that dying bed, I might have remained all my life with only " a name to live;" I might have missed all the blessed reality of life in Christ Jesus.