aw such heavenly
peace on her sleeping countenance, that I could have thought a light
shone from it like the glory about a saint's head in a picture. I do not
know how long I had stood gazing on her, when all at once she woke, and,
smiling at me,--

'Is it thou, Lucy?' said she; 'that is well. I have good news for thee;'
at which I began to fear she was light-headed, for how should she have
news that I knew not? But presently she went on, with many pauses
because of her difficult breathing.

'Thou hast grieved much, Lucy, thinking thy sailor would never come home
to thee again; be at peace, he shall come home, a better man,--and find
thee a holier woman for all the troubles thou shalt have seen.'

'How do you know? how can you tell?' I cried.

'I cannot tell thee now,' she said, 'but I do know. And thou hast seen,
dear heart, how I have grieved over my Andrew--my heart's child, the
comfort of my old age; I have thought he was clean gone out of the right
way, for all his sincerity. It has been shown me in my sleep, that I had
no need thus to grieve. His rashness may bring him sharp trials, but
even through those shall he enter in. The light that leads him is the
true Light. And though he and his fellows are but erring men,--like all
others,--yet even their trivial errors shall have their use; in days to
come men shall say that these despised and persecuted believers have
done nobly--for their country and for the world.'

'Then, do you think,' I said, in some trouble, 'that we are all wrong,
and only Andrew and those like-minded in the right?'

'Nay, dear heart,' said she, 'I think not so. The paths are many--but
the Guide is one. Let us only follow His voice,--and He will bring us
to His Father's house in safety. I have comfort about thy sister too,'
she added presently, 'though I fear it is not such as she can value yet.
Do not forget, dear child, to have Mr. Stokes sent for to-morrow; I wish
to receive the most comfortable Sacrament of the Lord's Supper once
more--with you all, before I go hence.' As she said the last words, her
voice sank away, and I saw that she was sleeping once more.

The next day we did as she had bidden, in sending for Mr. Stokes, who
accordingly came, and gave the Communion to all our household, as well
as to our poor aunt. I never liked him better than on that day.

But a sad day it proved to us, for we all saw plainly how our second
mother was now a dying woman. I think she hardly said