A good man's depasture. 153 



me, Mr Wilson, what has become of a Miss Isabella Keith 

 that I remember about Edinburgh?' I could only answer, 

 drill/, as they say in the play, that if she meant my wife, 

 she was still a respectable sort of a woman, and, at the pre- 

 sent time, in better health than usual. I was sorry after- 

 wards that I had not humoured the joke by saying that 

 you had got into a sad scrape some years ago by marrying 

 a ne'er-do-weel of the name of Wilson, and that neither 

 of them had ever been heard of since. As it was, how- 

 ever, the question and answer led to some amusement 

 among us. 



" I have gone thus far, my dearest, without alluding to 

 that most affecting and afflicting intelligence conveyed in 

 your letter— the death of that beneficent Christian and 

 kind-hearted man, George White. Like many other 

 mysterious dispensations, it is difficult to realise ; but, 

 alas ! it is true. The happy believer is at rest for ever. 

 As to his family, humanly speaking, the loss is irrepar- 

 able ; but He who pours His bless^l balm into the widow's 

 soul, till her heart does sing for joy, will be their stay in 

 this their hour of desolation ; and we know that the chil- 

 dren of a righteous man are not seen ' begging bread.' " 



The next letter, in a clear and careful hand, is to his 

 little daughter : — 



