ent a thrill of pain to
her nerve centres. Only two friends were gentle enough to aid Elizabeth
and me in nursing her, as she murmured, constantly: "If my husband were
only here!"

She could bear no voice in reading save Gabriel Adams' and my own. I
read to her comforting passages of Scripture, and said prayers which
carried her soul up to the throne, and fell back on mine in showers of
dust and ashes. A great black atheism had fallen on me. There was no
justice on earth, no mercy in heaven.

Her house was in Pittsburg, on Sixth street, a little cottage built for
her father and mother when they were alone. It stood back in a yard, and
rough men in passing stepped lightly--children went elsewhere with their
sports--friends tapped on the gate, and we went out to answer inquiries
and receive supplies--prayers were offered for her in churches,
societies and families. The house was a shrine consecrated by suffering
and sorrow.

The third month passed, and still she lingered. For seven weeks she took
no nourishment but half a cup of milk, two parts water, per day. Then
her appetite returned and her agony increased, but still with no lament
save: "My Father! Is it not enough?"

In the sixth month, January 17th, 1840, relief came. As I knelt for her
last words, she said: "Elizabeth?"

I replied, "She is here, dear mother, what of her?"

Summoning strength she said:

"Let no one separate you!" then looked up and said, "It is enough," and
breathed no more.

As her spirit rose, it broke the cloud, and the divine presence fell
upon me. The room, the world was full of peace. She had been caught up
out of the storm; and "he who endureth unto the end shall be saved."

By her request, I and a dear friend, Martha Campbell, prepared her body
for burial, and we wrapped her in a linen winding-sheet, as the body of
Christ was buried--no flowers, no decorations; only stern, solemn Death.

On the last day of father's life he had said to her, "Mary you are
human, and must have faults, but whatever they are I never have seen
them."

She had been his widow seventeen years, and by her desire we opened his
grave and laid her body to mingle its dust with his, who had been her
only love in the life that now is, and with whom she expected to spend
an eternity.

CHAPTER XIII.

"LABOR--SERVICE OR ACT."--AGE, 25.

Mother's will left everything to trustees, for the use of Elizabeth and
myself. She had wished my husband to join he