One evening after school-hours, Mrs. Adair went into Jane’s apartment, who at this time was chiefly confined to her chamber, and found her busily employed sealing small parcels. One was directed, “For my friend Miss Damer;” another, “For my dear little Isabella Vincent;” and a third, “For my amiable young friend Miss Arden.” Mrs. Adair seated herself with the work in which she was engaged: and as her eyes glanced to the sealed parcels, tears stole down her cheeks.

“My dear mother,” said Jane with tenderness, “I am only making a little preparation before my journey. You must have been aware, some time, that the days of my life were numbered; and they will now be very few. But do not grieve on my account: it is the appointment of One, who is unerring in his ways. Excepting the separation from you and my sister, I feel that I have no regret at leaving this world.

“Death is a subject that I have often contemplated. The grave, and the last perishable garment in which I shall be clothed, have now lost all their terrors. The evening I first arrived at school, when my mind was filled with grief at our separation, I remember being greatly shocked at the slow, solemn, deep tones of the village church-bell. I cannot describe my feelings at the time. Sorrow at leaving home rendered the awful muffled peal more dismal to my ears: but from that night I may date my first serious thoughts of another world. I have never troubled my friends with my reflections, but that bell was as a monitor, to warn me that I was not for this world.”

Miss Arden now entered the room; and Mrs. Adair gladly escaped, to indulge her tears in secret. With a calm collected countenance she then re-joined her pupils; but at the same time experienced the sorrow of a parent, who knows she is soon to be deprived of a beloved child. For Jane’s appearance too plainly denoted, that the period was at hand “when the keepers of the house would tremble.” At this time her uneasiness was increased by a melancholy, distressing letter from Mrs. Vincent, urging her not to delay a moment coming to her; that she was to undergo an operation, that would either close life or restore her to her family. Various feelings agitated Mrs. Adair’s mind as she read the letter. After a little reflection, she fixed upon the proper mode of acting, and in an hour a chaise was at the door, to convey her to her old friend.

Jane had now been confined wholly to her chamber a fortnight. Her disease was of a fluctuating nature: sometimes she appeared almost in perfect health; at others, as one dropping into the grave. She was seated in an arm-chair, supported with pillows. When Mrs. Adair entered the chamber, one hand rested upon a book that lay open upon a small table, and near the book was her watch; her head was thrown back, and her face was covered with a muslin handkerchief. Mrs. Adair, who had slowly opened the door, now as cautiously advanced; listened to hear her daughter breathe; and then gently raised the handkerchief. Jane started. Afraid of disturbing her, Mrs. Adair remained some time with fixed attention, holding the handkerchief from her face. A hectic flush was upon her cheeks; but her countenance was placid and happy. When she returned into her own chamber, Elizabeth was there, who anxiously inquired if she had seen her sister. “But have you taken leave of her?” she cried.

Mrs. Adair drew the veil of her bonnet over her face, as she said, “taking leave is a trial of all others—” and here she paused; “this is not of any consequence to you.”

“O, my dear mother, we have no earthly hope, no support but yourself; let my sister’s eyes rest for the last time upon the mother she has so tenderly loved; she will not die in peace unless you are with her.”

“My feelings are as irritable as your own,” said Mrs. Adair; “leave me to act according to my own judgment: not another word. Bring Isabella to me, for the chaise is at the door.”

While the ladies were walking with Miss Wilkins, the teacher, Elizabeth went into her sister’s chamber; and at the door met Mrs. Lloyd, the housekeeper, who had been ordered by Mrs. Adair to explain the motive of the journey to Jane.

“O, sister,” cried Elizabeth, “how could my mother, so considerate and good as she is, leave you in this state!”

“We cannot tell all her motives,” said Jane; “only consider what were my mother’s feelings, when she fixed her eyes upon this poor emaciated frame, as she supposed, for the last time.”“It was cruelty in the extreme,” cried Elizabeth.

“Do no speak rashly, my dear Elizabeth; we will hope—” and her eyes brightened with an expression of joy, “that all will yet be well; that, through the mercy of Providence, Mrs. Vincent will be restored to health, and that I shall be permitted to remain a little longer with you.”

“O, that it were to the day of my own death,” exclaimed Elizabeth with fervency. “There are few persons to whom my heart earnestly inclines, and I would have them with me through this life, and all eternity.”

“My dear sister, these things are not at our disposal. But let us consider the subject: every night we experience temporary dissolution: and then we are separated, even as if the hand of death had smitten us; when we go to rest, we have no positive assurance that we are to open our eyes again upon the objects of this world; still we project schemes; calculate upon probable and improbable events; but the entire suspension of our faculties is never taken into the account. Yet we are ignorant whether we are to open our eyes on the objects of this world, or that which is to come. I own I have not any desponding thoughts; I rest alone upon the mercies and the merits of a suffering and a redeeming Saviour; he is my sole refuge. To our mother, my conscience acquits me either of intentional errors, or errors of omission. This is a source of the purest consolation; it clears the rough, the thorny path to the valley of death. Elizabeth, my dearest sister, listen to me before I go hence, and be no more seen. Every night recall to mind the actions of the day. Let this be the question you put to yourself: “Have I done my duty in all things?” Where you have failed, let the morning sun, as it rises, be a token to you that another day is given for wise and good purposes; in the grave there is no remembrance of error, no atonement to be made for transgression, for neglect of the social duties of life.”

Elizabeth gazed at her sister with feelings of tenderness and sorrow.

“All things pass away,” said Jane, as she raised her eyes to her sister’s agitated face; “but ‘when this mortal has put on immortality,’ then Elizabeth, when we meet again, it will not be for transient days, and years, but for ages of eternity.”

Exhausted with speaking so long, she pointed to the book upon the table. “The spirit is willing,” said she, faintly, “but my voice is weak; will you oblige me, sister?”

“From my heart I will,” exclaimed Elizabeth; “would that I could not only oblige, but retain you for our comfort, for this world to my mother will be a wilderness indeed.”

“Not so,” said Jane, tears flowing into her eyes; “my affectionate, my warm-hearted sister will be my substitute! O, Elizabeth, friend dearest to me, may you be blessed where your heart is fixed.”

Elizabeth started, and her countenance became pale as death.

“Sister,” Jane slowly added, “you could not keep the secret from me; I have traced it in all your actions; but, rest assured, it will descend with me to the grave.”

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