had said pleasantly
to Abbie one day. "I want every one to know what seemed to me the most
important thing in life. And I want them to understand that when I
came just to the end of my life it stood out the most important thing
still--for Christians, I mean. My sermon is to be preached for them.
No it isn't either; it applies equally to all. The last time I went
to the city I found in a bookstore just the kind of sermon I want
preached. I bought it. You will find the package in my upper bureau
drawer, Abbie. I leave it to you to see that they are so arranged that
every one who comes to look at _me_ will be sure to see them."

So on this day, amid the wilderness of flowers and vines and mosses
that had possession of the rooms, ranged along the mantel, hanging in
clusters on the walls, were beautifully illuminated texts--and these
were some of the words that they spoke to those who silently gathered
in the parlors:

"And that knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of
sleep."

"But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead?"

"What shall we do that we might work the works of God?"

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there
is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither
thou goest."

"I must work the work of him that sent me while it is day: the night
cometh when no man can work."

"Awake to righteousness and sin not."

"Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall
give thee light."

"Redeeming the time, because the days are evil."

"Let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch, and be sober."

Chiming in with the thoughts of those who knew by whose direction the
illuminated texts were hung, came the voice of the minister, reading:

"And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are
the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit,
that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."

So it was that Ester Ried, lying quiet in her coffin, was reckoned
among that number who "being dead, yet speaketh."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT LAST.

The busy, exciting, triumphant day was done. Sadie Ried was no longer
a school-girl; she had graduated. And although a dress of the softest,
purest white had been substituted for the blue silk, in which she had
so long ago planned to appear, its simple folds had swept the platform
of Music Hall in as triumph