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