One morning in February, 1849, during family prayers at Brother Howland's, I was shown that it was our duty to go to Dartmouth, Massachusetts. Soon after, my husband went to the post office, and brought a letter from Brother Philip Collins, urging us to come to Dartmouth, for their son was very sick. We went immediately, and found that the boy, who was thirteen years old, had been sick for nine weeks with the whooping cough, and was wasted almost to a skeleton. The parents thought him to be in consumption, and they were greatly distressed to think that their only son must be taken from them.
We united in prayer for the boy, and earnestly besought the Lord to spare his life. We believed that he would get well, though to all appearances there was no possibility of his recovery. My husband raised him in his arms, exclaiming as he walked the room, “You will not die, but live!” We believed that God would be glorified in his recovery.
We left Dartmouth, and were absent about eight days. When we returned, little Gilbert came out to meet us. He had gained four pounds in weight. We found the household rejoicing in God over this manifestation of divine favor.
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