I don't know how

  • JAN. 20.-I have seen poor Amelia once more knockoff oakleys, and perhaps for the last time. She has failed rapidly of late, and Ernest says may drop away at almost any time.

    When I went in she took me by the hand, and with great difficulty, and at intervals said something like this:

    "I have made up my mind to it, and I know it must come. I want to see Dr. Cabot. Do you think he would be willing to visit me after my neglecting him so?"

    "I am sure he would," I cried.

    "I want to ask him if he thinks I was a Christian at that time-you know when. If I was, then I need not be so afraid to die."

    "But, dear Amelia, what he thinks is very little to the purpose replica oakleys. The question is not whether you ever gave yourself to God, but whether you are His now. But I ought not to talk to you. Dr. Cabot will know just what to say."

    "No, but I want to know what you thought about it."

    I felt distressed, as I looked at her wasted dying figure, to be called on to help decide such a question. But I knew what I ought to say, and said it:

    "Don't look back to the past; it is useless. Give yourself to Christ now."

    She shook her head.

    "I don't know how," she said. "Oh, Katy, pray to God to let me live long enough to get ready to die. I have led a worldly life. I shudder at the bare thought of dying; I must have time."

    "Don't wait for time," I said, with tears, "get ready now fake oakley polarized sunglasses, this minute. A thousand years would not make you more fit to die."

    So I came away, weary and heavy- laden, and on the way home stopped to tell Dr. Cabot all about it, and by this time he is with her.

    "MARCH 1.-Poor Amelia's short race on earth is over. Dr. Cabot saw her every few days and says he hopes she did depart in Christian faith, though without Christian joy






    . I have not seen her since that last interview. That excited me so that Ernest would not let me go again.

    Martha has been there nearly the whole time for three or four weeks, and I really think it has done her good. She seems less absorbed in mere outside things, and more lenient toward me and my failings.

    I do not know what is to become of those mother little girls. I wish I could take them into my own home, but, of course, that is not even to be thought at this juncture. Ernest says their father seemed nearly distracted when Amelia died, and that his uncle is going to send him off to Europe immediately.

    I have been talking with Ernest about Amelia.