The year 1861 had dawned upon us, and Aunt Hildy had not left us as she had expected to.

I said to her, "I believe you are better to-day than you were one year ago." She folded her hands and looking at me, said:

"Appearances is often deceitful, Emily; I haint long to stay, neither has the saint among us. Her eyes have a strange look in them nowadays, and the veins in the lids show dreadful plain; we must be prepared for it."

I could not talk about this, and how was I to prepare for it? I should never love her less, and could I ever bear to lose her, or realize how it would be without her? "Over there" was so far beyond me, I could only think and sigh and wait; but the symptoms of which Aunt Hildy spoke I noticed afterward, and it was true her eyelids seemed more transparent, and her eyes had a watery light.

I knew she was weak, and since the snow had fallen was chilled more easily than before, and had ventured out but little. I did not desire to pain Louis, but feeling uneasy, could not rest until I talked with him, and he said his heart had told him the little mother would leave us ere long. "If she lives till the fall, we will go down and see Southern Mary, if we can." Little Emily clung very closely to Clara, and if I had not insisted on having the care of her, I believe she never would have asked for me. Mother said we should spoil her, and Ben declared she "would make music for us by and by." Ben was still interested in his work, and as busy as a bee the long days through.

"Thirty-three years old," I said to him, "are you never to be married?"

"Guess not," he would reply laughingly, "I can't see how Hal could get on without me, and I, in my turn, need John. What a splendid fellow he is! They all like him around us here, and I believe I shall sell out the mill to him and buy another farm to take care of. He handles logs as easily as if they were matches. He is a perfect giant in strength."

"Yes, I know, Ben, but he never will live in a saw-mill. John is destined to be a public man; he will have calls and by and bye will stand in the high places and pour forth his eloquence. He may buy a saw-mill, but he will never keep himself in it, no matter how hard he tries."

"So my cake is all dough, you think, so be it, sister mine;" and baby Emily received a bear hug from Uncle Ben, who, a moment later, was walking thoughtfully over the hill.

The eighteenth of March was a cold day, extraordinarily so, tempestuous and stormy. Louis had been in Boston three days, and we thought the winds were gathering a harsh welcome for his return. His visits to Boston were getting to be quite frequent nowadays, for he had found some warm friends there, who had introduced themselves by letter, and now they were making united efforts to found a home for children,—foundlings who were to be kept and well cared for, until opportunities were presented to place them with kind people in good homes. He was getting on wonderfully, and I could hardly wait for the news he would bring to us.

He came at last, and with him an immense square package looking in shape very like a large mirror or a painting, and I wondered what it could be. Baby Emily had to be saluted cordially, and both her little arms were entwined around his neck.

"Now, now, little lady," said Louis, "go to thy royal mother, I have something to show thee," and taking off the wrappings of the mysterious package, he placed two life-size portraits before us, saying as he did so:

"Companion pieces, my life's saving angels—behold yourself, my Emily, see my fairy mother," and sure enough there we were. A glance at Clara caused me to exclaim:

"Wilmur Benton painted them."

"Yes, both," he replied. "Are they not beautiful?"

"Mine is not, I am sure, Louis; but your mother's,—oh, how lovely it is, and as natural as life! It must be the one to which Mary referred."

"It is, my Emily. I secured it long ago, and Mr. Benton has been a long time at work on yours. He is sadly afflicted, and does not look like the same man. His wife is dead, and I think he will not himself stay long. I have been to see him always when in Boston, and would have told you all before, had I not feared you might, by getting hold of one thread, find another; Hal knows all about it. But see, Emily, just see yourself as you are. I told you your eyes should speak from the canvas, and is it not as well as if my own hand had held the brush?"

I looked the words I could not say, and wondered how it came that this likeness should have been painted without my being before the artist. It was years since Wilmur Benton left us, and the picture represented me at my present age, I thought, and I asked:

"How did he get the expression, Louis?"

"Oh, Emily, he remembered every outline of your face, and with the greatest ease defined them! Then from time to time, I sat near and suggested here or there a change, until at last the work was perfected, which in all its beauty only tells the truth; you do not see yourself when your face lights up with glorious thought; the depth of your eyes was to me always a study, and this man, Emily, carries in his heart to-day the knowledge of your worth; he holds you and my little mother in fond remembrance. His soul is purified by suffering, and this last visit I made him has given him strength to tell me his whole life. When with a sigh he ended his story, he looked at me sorrowfully, and said:

"'I suppose you will despise me now, but I feel that after all your kindness I must tell you, for it is right you should know. Halbert, I have never told—it is as well not to do so.'"

"Poor fellow," I said, "and we knew it all before."

"No, not all; his life has been a drama with wonderfully wild, sad scenes, and the great waves of his troubles and errors have, at times, driven him nearly crazy. His eldest son is an artist like himself, and finely organized. The other is in the West with an uncle of his mother's. Are you sorry I have done all this? Speak, my beloved."

My eyes told him that my heart was glad for the little comfort he could give this man whose perfidy had given me sorrow, and Clara said:

"To help one lost lamb to find the fold is the blessed work my boy should always do."

Aunt Hildy raised both hands at sight of our pictures, exclaiming:

"Beautiful! beautiful! Splendid! Louis could not have brought us all a greater surprise, or one that would have been more highly valued."

Little Emily patted and kissed the faces, and soon learned to designate them, "pit mam and mam Cla," for pretty mamma and mamma Clara.

A few weeks after this we were sitting together in earnest conversation; the small, dark cloud hung over us that threatened civil war, and while I could hardly believe it possible, Louis and Clara said it must come. Matthias came in of an errand, and sat down to hear us talk, and when father said, "Oh, no, we shall not have war; those Southerners are too lazy to fight," he raised both his hands and exclaimed:

"Excoose me fur conterdictin' ye, but, Mr. Minot, ye dunno 'bout dat; dey'll fight to de end ob time for dar stock. A good many on 'em owns morin' two hundred, an' its money; it's whar de living comes from. Ef you gib 'em a chance dey'll show you a big streak, an' fight dey will for sartin."

The words had hardly left his lips, when Clara said:

"Oh! take me quick, dear boy!"

We all sprang to her side. Ere Louis could put his arms around her, she fell from her chair like dead.

"Fainted! Water!" said Louis.

"Camfire!" said Aunt Hildy, and I stood powerless to move or speak. I saw Louis lay her on the sofa, and thought she was dead; the room grew dark, and I forced myself to feel my way to the door, and leaning against it would have fallen had not father put his arm about me and led me through into the entry where I could get some air. When the sickening swimming feeling left me, and the mist fell from my eyes, I was strong enough to do something, and kneeling by the side of the motionless figure, felt her pulse, or rather tried vainly to find it, and put my cheek to her mouth, whence came no breath.

"Oh! Clara darling, little mother, speak to us, our hearts are breaking! Oh, Louis! get hot water and flannels, chafe her limbs, put a hot cloth over the stomach and chest; she is not dead," and putting my head down, I breathed full, long breaths into her nostrils.

"'Taint no use," said Aunt Hildy, "but we must do it," and she worked with a will.

"That poor angel woman is done gone," said Matthias. "She couldn't stan' it. Oh, de Lord!" and he looked the picture of despair.

We were losing hope of resuscitation, and I sank on the floor beside Louis, who still knelt at the head of the lounge, when a faint sound came from her lips. We held our breath and listened, and now in a low, weak voice she said:

"I'll go back, Louis Robert, to say good-bye; I can stay a little longer; oh! they feel so badly—yes, I must go back," and then long, deep sighing breaths were taken. A little longer and her eyes opened—"Louis, Emily, baby, friends, I am here."

"Oh! little mother," said Louis, "where is the trouble?"

She tried to smile, as if to cover all our fears, and said with effort:

"I am weak; I could not hold together; get some of Aunt Hildy's bitters," and when the glass containing it was held to her lips, she drank eagerly.

"Take both hands, Louis; let the baby touch me."

"Oh, Clara, don't go!" I said, as I held little Emily near her.

"No, no, not now, but I want help to stay; keep the baby close.

"Matthias, don't go home," she said, and then, closing her eyes, lay so still and motionless I feared she would never move again.

A half hour had passed and she still looked so cold and white, when suddenly her eyes opened, and her voice was strong as she said:

"I am better now, I have come clear back,—help me to get up, dear boy," and Louis put his arms around her to raise her; as he did so I saw a strange look pass over her face, and her hands were laid on her limbs. She turned her beautiful eyes upon me, as if to say "don't be frightened," and said, "Please move my limbs, there is no feeling there—they are paralyzed, and I am so glad it is not my hands." I moved them gently, and thought when she was really herself she would be able to use them. She seemed now bright and cheerful as before.

The evening wore on; Matthias went home, and at Clara's request Aunt Hildy occupied a room with her down stairs, Louis carrying her tenderly to her couch as if she were a child.

Sleep came toward us with laggard steps through the long night; Louis seemed to realize it all so plainly, and my heart was in my throat. I tried to hope, and when at last I fell asleep I wandered in dreams to a wondrous fountain, whose silvery spray fell before me as a gleaming promise, and I thought its murmuring music whispered, "she will live," and her Louis Robert, who stood near me, constantly sang the same sweet words. I believe my dream really comforted me, for when I woke it clung to me still, and "she will live" rang in my ears like a sweet bell chime.

We found her better and like herself, but the lower limbs were cold as marble, heavy also and without feeling, and we knew it was, as she had said, "paralysis."

"Now I am to be a burden, my Emily mother, and oh, if you had not called me back, I would have gone to the hills with Louis Robert! It was not fancy nor delirium, for I knew that my body was falling. I saw him when he came and whispered 'now, darling, now,' and when I lost your faces, he raised me in his arms, and I was going, oh! till somebody breathed upon me, and warm drops like rain touched my cheek, and I heard your hearts all say, 'we cannot have it.' This like a strong hand drew me back, and I thought I must come and say good-bye for a comfort to you all. So Louis Robert, with his great love waiting for me there, drew himself away and kindly said, 'I will wait,'—then a mist came between us, and I opened my eyes to see you all around me."

"Oh, Clara! how can we ever let you go?"

"Ah, my beloved ones! I only go a little before you, and if you knew how sweet it will be to be strong, you would say, because you love me, 'I may go.' I have many things to say—and I shall remain with you a time, and may, I fear, weary you. I am glad Louis is strong."

It was pitiful to see the patience with which she bore her suffering. There was no pain, she said, but it was a strange feeling not to be alive—and she would look at her limbs and say, "Poor flesh, you are not warm any more." We had one of her crimson-cushioned easy chairs arranged to suit her needs, and in this she could be rolled about. She sat at the table with us and I kept constantly near her, and tried to shield her from any extra excitement. When on the thirteenth day of April, news reached us of the blow which, the day before, had fallen on Sumter, we feared to let her know it. But her spirit quickened into the clearest perception possible, divined something, and obliged us to tell her.

She said: "I knew it would come, I have felt it for years, and when the cruel sacrifice is finished, liberty will arise, and over the ashes of the slain will say, 'Let the bond go free.'"

Ben's eyes looked as Hal's did, when he left us for Chicago, and he whispered to me:

"I must go. Hal must stay here; Louis cannot go. John will see to every thing for me, and I am going."

Six days later he had enlisted, and oh! how filled these days were! When Matthias heard of it, he came over, and happening to meet me where he could talk freely, he said:

"Dis is jes' what I knowed was a comin', an' I have tole Ben fur to kill dat Mas'r Sumner, de fus' ting, for he's the one dat ort fur to be killed."

"Why, Matthias, you are in a great hurry to kill him, and you really believe he is to drop right into that terrible fire; why, I could not hurry a dog out of existence if I thought everlasting torment awaited him."

"Look a yere, Miss Em'ly, ef dat dog wuz mad, you'd kill him mighty quick, wouldn't ye?"

I did not know what to say, and he answered the question himself:

"Yas, de Lord knows, dat man needs tendin' to, an I'se mighty anxious fur de good Lord to take him in han'. We'll live to see ebery black man free, Miss Em'ly,—we shall, shure,—an' dere'll be high times down in Charleston. Wonder what little Molly'll do?"

"I have been thinking about her," I said. "You know the last letter we received they were fearful of war, and thinking of coming to her husband's friends in Pennsylvania; but she feared her mother would die; she has been poorly for a long time."

"Reckin she'll die, then, fur de 'sitement'll kill her, ef nuffin else don't."

The days wore on and Clara still lingered with us. Ben was as yet unhurt, and first lieutenant of his company. He wrote us that battle was not what he had thought it; he was not shaky at all, and the smell of powder covered every fear; he had only one thought and that was to do his duty. A letter full of sorrow came from Mary. Her mother had passed from earth, and her father was going on to a little farm they owned a few miles from the city, and she, with her husband and Althea Emily was, trying to get into Pennsylvania. "I am in momentary fear," she wrote, "for my husband is watched so closely, his principles are so well known, I think we shall have great trouble in getting through, but we cannot stay here."

The dewy breath of May was rising about us; violet angle was alive with its blossoms, and the birds sang sweetly as if there were no sorrowing hearts in the land.

Clara had failed of late, and the evening of the fifteenth we were gathered together at her request in her sitting-room.

"Do not feel troubled," she said, "for when I am out of sight, you will sorrow if you feel I have not told it all. Come, baby Emily, sweet bird sit close to mam Cla, while she tells the story."

Louis and I sat on either side, Aunt Hildy with mother and father very near, so that we formed a semi-circle.

"I am losing my strength, as you all know," said Clara "and the day is very near when I shall reach for the hand that will lead me to the hills. Now, Louis, my dear boy, here is the paper I have written, wherein I give to you all the things I believe you will prize. I believe I have remembered all who have been so kind and so dear to me, and I know you will comply with every wish, and I desire no form of the law to cover my words." Louis took the papers with a trembling hand, and she continued: "It is wise and right for me to tell you about the laying away of this frame of mine, for I know if I do not tell you about it many questions will arise, and we will have them all settled now before I go beyond your hearing. I shall hear you and see you all the time.

"First, buy for me a cedar coffin, since it will please you to remember that this wood lasts longer in the ground than any other. Do not have any unnecessary trimmings for it, and I would like to wear in this last resting-place the blue dress I prize the most. You will find in my large trunk the little pillow I have made for my head; just let me lie there a little on one side, and put a few of Emily's sweet violets in my hand that I may be pleasant to look upon. Leave no rings upon my fingers; these I wear, my Louis Robert gave me, and you must keep them for his grandchild," and as she said this, she unfastened the shining chain that she had worn hidden so many years, and putting it around our little Emily's neck, said: "Let her always wear the chain and the locket," and while the baby's eyes reflected the gleam of the gold that dazzled them, we were all weeping. "Do not feel so," said Clara; "it is beautiful to go; let me tell you the rest. All these people whom I have known will desire to look at my face, and for their sakes let me be carried into the old church which has become to me so dear. I have asked Mr. Davis to preach from the text, 'I am the resurrection and the life.'

"Be sure that the children from the Home all go, and I would like you with them to occupy the front pews. I have a fancy," and she smiled, "that if you sit there it will help me to come near to my deserted tenement. I know I shall be with you there, and I hope you will never call me dead. My house of clay is nearly dead now, and the more strength it loses the stronger my spirit feels. Mr. Minot said, long since, that I might own part of his lot in the churchyard, and I would like to be buried under the willow there. I like that corner best. Do not ever tell little Emily I am there; just say I'm gone away to rest and to be well and strong, and when she is older tell her the frame that held the picture is beneath the grasses, and that my freed soul loves her and watches her, for it will be true. If you feel, Louis, my dear boy, like bringing your father's remains to rest beside me, you can do so. It will not trouble either of us, for it matters little; we are to be together. This is all, except that, if it be practicable, I should like the burial to take place at the hour of sunset; this seems the most fitting time. While the grave is yet open, please let the children sing together, 'Sweet Rest;' I always like to hear them sing this. To-morrow evening I have something to say to the friends who really seem to belong to me,—Hal and Mary, Mr. Davis, Matthias, Aunt Peg and John, Jane and her husband. Please let them come at six o'clock."

She closed her eyes wearily, and looked so white and beautiful, her small hands folded, and the fleecy shawl about her falling from her shoulders, and it seemed as if the material of life, like this delicate garment, was also falling from her. Desolation spread its map before me. I could think of nothing but an empty room and heart, and with Louis' arms about me, I sobbed bitterly. Then I thought how selfish I was, and said: "Louis, take her in your arms; she is so tired, poor little mother." The blue eyes looked at me with such a tender light, and she said, "Yes, I am tired." Louis gathered her in his arms and seated himself in a rocker. Aunt Hildy went for some cordial. Mother and father sat quietly with bitter tears falling slowly, and with little Emily in my arms, I crossed the room to occupy a seat where my tears would not trouble her. It was sadly beautiful.

She drew strength from Louis, and was borne into her room feeling, she said, very comfortable. I wanted to stay with her through the night, but she said:

"No, the baby needs you; so does Louis; I know how he feels; my night will be peaceful and my rest sweet; Aunt Hildy will rest beside me."

"Yes, yes, I'll stay, and we shall both rest well," said Aunt Hildy.

In the morning she was weak, but we dressed her, and after eating a little she felt better, and in the afternoon seemed very comfortable and happy. We had our supper at a little after five o'clock, and at six o'clock, as she had wished, all were in her room.

"Louis, roll my chair into the centre of the room, and let me face the west, for I love to see day's glory die. Now come, good friends all, and sit near me, where I can see your faces. I want to tell you that I am going out of your sight, and I have left to each of you what seemed good and right to me. I hope, yes, I know you will remember that I love you all so much I would never be forgotten. You are grown so dear to me that I shall not forget to look upon you; and please remember that I am not dead, but shall be to you a living, active friend, who sees and knows your needs, and to whose heart may be entrusted some dear mission for your greatest good. Mr. and Mrs. Turner," and she held her hands to Jane and her husband, "be true and faithful to each other. Leave no work undone, love the children, and ask help from the hills, whence it shall ever come. You will, I am sure;" and her eyes turned inquiringly upon them.

"Oh, Mis' De-Mond," said Jane, "I will, oh, you blessed angel woman!"

"I will, so help me God!" said Mr. Turner, and they took their seats, while Clara, with a motion that said please come, called:

"Matthias and Aunt Peg, and you too, John, don't think I can ever forget you. You will come to me, and you will know me there, and, John, you have a wonderful work to do; your words will bear sweet tidings to your race, and your reward shall be that of the well-doer."

"Oh, de good Lord! white lamb, how kin we ever let you go; you's done got hold on our heart-strings! Oh, de good Lord bless ye, ye snow-white darlin', an' ef it's de Mas'r's will, den we mus' lib all in the dark widout ye, but de light ob your eyes is hevin to dis ole heart!"

"Oh, that's true' nuf!" said Aunt Peg, "God'll take care on you, but what'll we do?" and their groans fell like the wailing winds upon the ears of us all; our hearts were touched to their inmost chords.

"Mr. Davis," said Clara, and her eyes dilated with a wondrous light while her voice grew unnaturally strong, "I am to see your wife. Shall I say you are looking forward to meeting her?"

"Just that, and it will not be long," and he bowed his head as he held in both his own her white hand.

"Halbert and Mary, come and let me bless you. My brother and sister, you are so dear to me. You, Halbert, have a wondrous touch; you stand before the shrine of art, and ere many years a people's verdict shall more than seal your heart's desire; a master artist you shall be, my friend."

"Oh, Clara, Clara!" said Hal—

"Yes," she continued, "Love's fawn has won the prize for you at home and abroad; I leave to you a friend,—Louis will attend to it all,—and among the little ones who come there will be some who have, like you, talent; help them as you shall see fit."

He could only bow his head, while Mary, sobbing as if her heart would break, said:

"Do not go; oh, do not leave us!"

Clara closed her eyes and sank back among her cushions almost breathless. We took her hands, Louis and I, and I feared she would never speak again. Tearful and motionless these beloved ones sat about her, and at last, when the crimson and gold swept like a full tide of glory the broad western expanse that lay before us, she raised herself, looked into all our faces, held her lips for a last kiss from us of the household, and said in tones as clear as silver bells:

"I am going now; he is coming. Aunt Hildy, you will come soon. Emily, love my Louis. Louis, kiss me again; fold close the falling garment. Baby, breathe on me once more—Louis Robert. Oh, this is beautiful!"

Her head dropped on Louis' shoulder. Slowly the eyelids covered the beautiful eyes.

She was dead. Clara, the purest of all, dead and how beautiful the transition! What a picture for the sunset to look upon, as with the full tide of sympathy flooding our hearts, we stood around her where she lay! John, in his strong dark beauty, with folded arms, and eyes like wells of sorrow; Matthias and Aunt Peg, with tears running over their dusky faces; good Mr. Davis, with his gray hairs bending over her as if to hear her tell the message to his loved one; Aunt Hildy standing like one who is only waiting for a little more to fill the cup, which is already near her lips; my father and mother with their tender sympathies expressed in every feature, with Jane and her husband near them like two statues; Hal and Mary beside Louis and me, wrapt like ourselves in the mantle of a strange and new experience. How long we stood thus, I know not; the last sun-rays were dying as Aunt Hildy said: "We must wait no longer; Jane and Aunt Peg, you'll help me, the rest of you need'nt stay;" and so we left our beautiful dead, still in the hands of her friends.

The day of her burial was a perfect one—calm in its beauty, the blue of its skies like the eyes of our darling. The little pillow made by her own hands was of blue, covered with a fine web of wrought lace, and with edging that had also been her handiwork. We dressed her as she desired,—in a plain dress of pale blue,—the violet blossoms she loved were in her hand, and it seemed to me as if I could never see her laid out of sight—she was so beautiful in this last sleep; she looked not more than thirty; there were no gray hairs among the brown, and no lines of care or sorrow marked her sweet, pure face.

All things were as she desired, and when the sun burned low on the hills, we laid her under the willow, while the children sang "Sweet Rest."

"Will there ever be another like her?" I said.

"Never," said Aunt Hildy.

"No, never," said the hearts of all.

My father missed her as much as if she had been his daughter, and I was glad of little Emily's presence; it was a star in our night. Louis was calm and strong, and spoke of her daily, and insisted on her plate at the table, saying:

"I cannot call her dead. Let us keep a place for her."

It was a tender recognition which we respected. He looked after her, it seemed to me, and almost saw her in her new home. The months wore on, and our cares were still increasing. News of battles lost and won came to us daily, and at last a letter telling of Lieutenant Minot having been wounded seriously. It was impossible for any one to reach him at present, and we must wait until he got to Washington, whither he would be sent as soon as he was able. Our fears were great, but at last a letter came from Washington, stating he would start for home on the twenty-first of October, and he desired Hal to meet him in New York. Hal found that the wound was in the shoulder, and the ball was still in it. Unsuccessful probing had caused him great suffering, and we should hardly have known him.

When the real state of the wound was known, Aunt Hildy said:

"I can get that ball out," and she went to work energetically. She cut cloth into strips and bound all about the place where the ball entered, and then she made a drawing "intment," as she called it, and applied it daily, and in about four weeks, to our great delight, the ball came out. Ben had the receipt for that wonderful "intment," and he calls it "Aunt Hildy's miracle."

When the cold days of the fall came upon us, Aunt Hildy felt them greatly, and the morning of December tenth we awoke to find her gone; she had gone to sleep to wake in a better home.

It seemed as if we could not have it so, but when I remembered all she had told me of her hopes and fears, when I knew she had found Clara and was glad, I said we were selfish; let our hearts say "Amen."

The town mourned Aunt Hildy, and again our church was filled to overflowing, and the sermon Mr. Davis preached was a just and beautiful tribute to our beloved friend, the true and faithful Hildah Patten.

The day after the burial, father said to us in a mournful tone:

"Now I have a duty to perform, and when she talked to me about it, she said, 'Do it right off, Mr. Minot; don't wait because you feel kinder bad to have me laid away. It's the best way to do what you've got to do, and get it over with.'

"So to-night we'll read the papers, and then we will carry out her desires—good old soul; I do wish she could have stayed longer. I can hardly see how we're going to live without her."

The evening drew near, and Halbert, Mary and Ben, with little Hal, were seated in the "middle room," while my father, with a trembling hand, turned the key in a small drawer of the old secretary, and took out a roll of papers and a box. As he did so a thought struck him, and he turned suddenly, saying:

"Why are not all here? She told me to have Matthias and Peg and John come over. I believe a few more sad partings would make me lose my memory."

"I'll go over for them," said Ben; "it is early yet."

"Yes, there is plenty of time," said father. "The sun sets early; the shortest day in the year will soon be with us," and his eyes closed as if he were too tired to think, and he sat in silence until the sound of feet on the walk aroused him.

"Hope we hain't come over to see more dyin', Miss Em'ly. 'Pears like its gettin' pooty lonesome round yere," and as our friends seated themselves, the old clock tolled the hour of seven.

Little Emily was asleep in Louis' lap, and her cousin Hal curled himself up in one corner of the old sofa, as if he, too, felt the presence of the god of sleep.

"Now we are ready," said my father, "and here is the paper written by Aunt Hildy which she bade me read to you all, and whose instructions we must obey to the letter, remembering how wise and good our kind friend has ever been. It is written in the form of a letter," and he read the following:

"My dear friends, I am writin' this as ef I was dead and you still in the land of the livin', as we call it; I feel now as if when you read it I shall be in the land of the livin', and you among them who feed mostly on husks. I know by this stubbin pain in my side that I shall go to sleep, and jest step over into Clary's room before long, and all that ain't settled I am settlin' to-night, and to Mr. Minot's care I leave these papers and this box. You have been good and true friends to me, and I want to help you on a little in the doin' of good and perfect work. When Silas left me alone he took with him little money. I don't know what possessed him; but Satan, I guess, must have flung to the winds the little self-respect he had. He took one boy off with him to be a vagrant. Silas' father was a good man, and he left a good deal of property to this son of his, and we had got along, in a worldly sense, beautiful; so when, he went away he left considerable ready money and a lot of land, and I've held on to it all. Sometimes I've thought one of 'em might come back and want some of it; but now I know they are dead. From time to time I've sold the land, etc., and you see I've added to what was left. I now propose to divide it between Emily and Louis, as one, Jane North Turner and her husband, and John Jones."

As this name fell from my father's lips, John's dark eyes spoke volumes and his broad chest heaved with emotion, but he sat perfectly erect, with his arms folded, and I thought what a grand picture he made.

Matthias groaned:

"Oh, de good Lord ob Israel, what ways?" Aunt Peg gave vent to one of her peculiar guttural sounds as father concluded the unfinished sentence with the names of Ben, Hal and his good little wife.

"Now, you can't do a great deal with this money, but it will go a little ways toward helpin' out. I believe there is just three thousand dollars, and that figgers only six hundred dollars apiece. Now, ef Ben's shoulder prevents him from workin', and he needs to have it, Halbert must give him half of what I leave to him, and I know he'll do it. Ben wants to get married, and I can see which way the wind blows in that quarter, and I think sense he's been half killed you'd all better help him. When that comes to pass, give to him all the furniture and beddin' that I leave, for his wife will be sensible enough to be glad of it. Halbert's likeness of me in marble is a great thing they say, and sells well, and he will please to put me up again in that same shape, and then sell the picter and use the money to help the poor. He'll do jest what I'd like to have him.

"Emily and Louis will know jest what to do with their share; and now, John Jones, to you,—as a child of our father, as a brother to me,—I say, help yourself with what little I bestow in the very best way you can. Ef I didn't know you would look well after Peg and Matthias I should have left it to them and not to you. They won't stay here very much longer, any way—and its all peace ahead, blessed peace. You, perhaps, are wonderin' why Jane and her husband ain't here in this list. This is the reason: I wanted to tell you jest how I come to have this money, and I thought her husband would feel bad at the explanation. I should like to have you all go over there, and let Mr. Minot read to Mr. and Mrs. Turner and the children the paper I have left for them. Now I'm contented to go, and ef they do put a railroad track through my wood lot, it can't make me feel bad. The things of earth that I held so close through long years, will not seem to me any more as they have, too holy to be teched."

When father concluded the reading, we sat in such silence that the tick of the old clock, was to our ears the united beating of our hearts. Our thoughts were all centered on the wisdom and goodness of our unselfish friend who, through her life had been ever mindful of the needs of her fellow-men, and who, when standing before the gate of her eternal home, threw behind her her last treasure, thinking still of the poor hearts who needed its benefit.

We were to assemble at Jane's the next afternoon at five o'clock, and when we said "good night," John looked up at the stars and said:

"If the spirit of that good woman sees me, she reads what I cannot tell you."

The next afternoon found us in Jane's large square room, which faced the western sky, and no less than twenty children were seated there with us. This number seemed to be the complement of the Home,—as many as could comfortably be accommodated. It was a pleasant care to Jane, for her heart was in the work, and she looked younger now than before the work began. The wishes of the boys were consulted, and each one as nearly fitted to the place he occupied as possible. Jane said, when they first began to multiply, the care troubled her some; but she began to talk to herself, and to say: "There now, don't be foolish enough to notice every little caper of them boys," and then, she said: "I began to practise what I preached to myself. It worked first-rate, for I give over watchin' 'em, and we get along splendid."

There was a breathless silence when Louis said:

"We are here at the request of your friend, children, the blessed Aunt Hildy who has left a word for you. You know she loved you, and I imagine at this moment you are each wearing a pair of stockings which were knit for you by her. Now listen, please, while Mr. Minot reads to you her letter."

Then, in a slow and impressive manner, father read as follows:

"My dear folks at the Home. I'm about to leave this world for a better, and on the borders of that blessed land I think of you. I think of your happy faces and of Mr. and Mrs. Turner, who love you so much, and I should like to have you know that I expect to meet you all over there. You boys will grow to be good men, and you girls, who are like sweet pinks to my mind, I want you to make blessed good women every one of you. Now I think the good folks who take care of you would be thankful to have a school-house of their own, and teachers who are interested in the work of helping you along; and to give a little help, I leave to Mr. and Mrs. Turner eight hundred dollars—two hundred is in the box in one dollar gold pieces—to build a school-house with. You know I own a piece of land next to yours, and here in this plot of two acres I want you to put up this school-house. Give Mr. Brown the work, and let him draw up the plan with Mr. Turner; I've figured it out, and I think there's enough to build a good, substantial building such as you need; and the deed of the two acres I give to the children. Each one of their names is there, including those of the two that came first. Let each one, ef old enough, do as he or she pleases with the ground. Ef they want to raise marigolds, let 'em, and ef they want to raise garden sass, let 'em. I should think Burton Brown would like to step in as a teacher, and I believe he will, but the rest you can manage.

"Now this is all. When you get the school-house built you'll want a walk around it, and ef you should have a border of flowers, you may put in some 'live forever' for me, for that means truth, and that is what I want you to find. If Fanny Mason feels like goin' over to Mis' Minot's to live with her, I'd like to have her go, and if she does, she'll find two chests and a trunk full of things I've left that she needs, but she must have her piece of ground here just the same. The deed I have made is recorded, and I would like to have Mr. Dayton survey the land, and make the division of it. Then you can each one of you hold your own as long as you live, Mr. and Mrs. Turner keepin' it in trust till the law says you're of age."

The hearts of the children were touched at this token of love. Bright eyes reflected happy thoughts. Fanny Mason was the first to speak. She looked at my mother, while her eyes swam in tears.

"May I come, Mrs. Minot?—I would like to help somebody, and it must be right or she would not have written it."

Mother held her hand to her, and I thought I never saw gratitude more plainly written than upon the face of Fanny. She was one of the three girls whom Louis found in the city streets, the eldest of the flock, and so good and amiable we had always loved her. When mother held her hand out to her in answer to her question, little Emily thought it time to speak, and putting out both her own, said:

"Tum, Panny, et, you outer."

"I will," said Fanny, as she gathered her in her arms.

"I'm goin' to have flowers," I heard one little fellow say.

"I'm goin' to raise corn," said another.

Mr. Davis was with us this evening, and after the children had given vent to their joy, he rose, saying:

"I have a word to say of our dear good friend, Mrs. Patten. About four weeks before she left us, I had a long talk with her. She told me of her pleasant anticipations and also that she expected to see me there ere long. Her last words on that memorable occasion were, as nearly as I can remember, these: 'I go from death to life, from bondage to freedom. All I have of earth I want to leave where it shall point toward heaven, or a higher condition of things. If you were to stay, Brother Davis, you should do some of this work, but you must get yourself ready, and you need no more to dispose of.' I feel that this is true, and I ask you, children, to feel that I shall hope to be remembered by you through time. The lesson of harmonious action has been taught upon these hills, and when the years to come shall brighten our pathway, tired hearts will still be waiting. The angel of deliverance will be present then, as now, and the munificence of those who have gone from us, as well as of those who are yet in the body, has made the strong foundation on which to stand; and in the blest future your hands will be helpful, while your hearts shall sing of those whose hearts and hands did great service for the advancement of love and truth. My heart is glad; I have learned much; I know that our Father holds so closely his beloved, that no one of his children shall call to him unheard."

We had a real meeting, as Jane expressed it, and I said to Louis:

"What a great fire a small matter kindleth!"

He replied: "We have claimed the promise and brought to our hearts the strength we need 'where two or three are gathered together.' You know I often think of this, and also of the incomparable comfort the entire world would have if the eyes that are blinded could see; if the hearts that beat slow and in fear were quickened into life. Ah! Emily, the years to come hold wondrous changes. The cruel hand of war would never have touched us had the first lesson in life's book been well read and understood."

"That is true," said my father, as we entered the gate at home, and looking up I saw two stars, and said:

"Clara and Aunt Hildy both say 'Amen!'"