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When the fourth of July came Dr. Clements and Mr. Chamberlain insisted that I was to go to Brooklyn for a short rest. But at the end of three days I was summoned back to the Institution to welcome, with the customary poem, the great Irish temperance advocate, Father Mathew; and the brief sojourn of the grand old man in our midst was like the visit of an angel to a house of death.

"Daughter, are you from Ireland?" he asked after I had warmly praised the deeds of his countrymen in their struggle for independence.

"No," I was obliged to reply, "but I love Ireland." Then the kind patriarch of temperance laid his hand reverently on my head, and his touch seemed to me like that of a saint who had been permitted to leave his abode in heaven for one single moment to cheer the desolate children of earth.

Not many days after his visit I felt that I had some of the symptoms of cholera myself; and during the day I walked about a great deal and took a large quantity of the cholera pills; for I was well aware that yielding to the disease practically meant death. Yet I did not tell any of those around me, lest I should frighten them; but I excused myself at six o'clock saying that I had been several nights almost without any sleep; and after a good night's rest, at eight the following morning, I awakened to find myself in perfectly normal health. When, however, it became known that I had been in danger of the disease, there was a hasty consultation, after which, Mr. Chamberlain announced that I was to leave for the country on the first of August.

So I left the sorrowing city, which had been almost depopulated by the departure of all who could possibly retire to a safer place, until the frosts of November should kill the epidemic. There were two new cases at the Institution after I left, and three deaths; but about two weeks later the twenty pupils who remained were taken to Whitlockville, New York, for the rest of the summer. In late October the mayor of New York wrote a very beautiful letter asking his scattered people to return to their homes because the danger was past; and so, early in November, our little family were again united.

But I leave these sad events and now turn back almost ten years, to 1839 and the class-meetings at the Eighteenth Street Methodist Church. Some of us used to go down there regularly, and on Thursday evening of each week a leader came from that church to conduct a class in the Institution. In those days I was timid and never spoke in public, when I could possibly avoid it; and I roust confess that I had grown somewhat indifferent to the means oi grace, so much so, in fact, that I attended the meetings and played for them on the condition that they should not call on me to speak.

But one evening the leader brought a young man with him and he was destined to have an important influence on my life. He was Mr. Theodore Camp, a teacher in the city schools; and a man noted for his generous public spirit. From the beginning of our acquaintance I found him a true friend; and I used to consult him concerning all matters in which I was undetermined how to act. In 1845 he was placed in charge of our industrial department; and then we used to attend the class meetings together, but he never urged me in religious matters. And yet I owe my conversion to that same friend, in so far as I owe it to any mortal. By a strange dream I was aroused from a comparative state of indifference. Not that the dream had any particular effect, in itself, except as the means of setting me to thinking. It seemed that the sky had been cloudy for a number of days; and finally someone came to me and said that Mr. Camp desired to see me at once. Then I thought I entered the room and found him very ill.

"Fanny, can you give up our friendship?" he asked.

"No, I cannot; you have been my advisor and friend and what could I do without your aid?"

"But," replied he, "why would you chain a spirit to earth when it longs to fly away and be at rest?"

"Well," I replied, "I cannot give you up of myself but I will seek Divine Assistance."

"But will you meet me in Heaven?"

"Yes, I will, God helping me," I replied; and I I -sic- thought his last words were, "Remember you promise a dying man!" Then the clouds seemed to roll from my spirit, and I awoke from the dream with a start. I could not forget those words, "Will you meet me in Heaven?" and although my friend was perfectly well I began to consider whether I could really meet him, or any other acquaintance in the Better Land, if called to do so.

The weeks sped on until the autumn of 1850 when revival meetings were being held in the Thirtieth Street Methodist Church. Some of us went down every evening; and, on two occasions, I sought peace at the atlar -sic-, but did not find the joy I craved, until one evening, November 20, 1850, it seemed to me that the light must indeed come then or never; and so I arose and went to the altar alone. After a prayer was offered, they began to sing the grand old consecration hymn,