“mamma.”” The shame of going back moved me to one last effort, and, summoning my utmost strength of tongue I succeeded in saying “mother.””1
All devices to restore the young mother's failing strength were in vain: soon after giving birth to the fourth daughter, Ann Eliza
, she died.
Her life had been pure, happy, and unselfish; yet her last hours were full of anguish.
Reared in the strictest tenets of Evangelical piety, she was oppressed with terror concerning the fate of her soul; the sorrows of death compassed her about, the pains of hell gat hold upon her. It is piteous to read of the sufferings of this innocent creature, as described by her mourning family; piteous, too, to realize, by the light of to-day, that she was almost literally prayed to death
. She was twenty-seven years old when she died and had borne seven children.
's grief at the death of this beloved wife was so extreme as to bring on a severe illness.
For some time he could not bear to see the child who, he thought, had cost her mother's life; and though he gathered his other children tenderly around him, the little Annie
was kept out of his sight.
By and by his father came to make him a visit and heard of this state of things.
Going to the nursery, the old gentleman took the baby from its nurse, and carrying it into the room where his son sat desolate, laid it gently in his arms.
From that moment the little youngest became almost his dearest care.
He could not live with his sorrow in the same dwelling