owing to suffering and
care wearing upon the spirits, but I see now that its true source lies
far deeper. My brother H. has been married a couple of months, so I have
one sister more. I shall be glad when they are all married. Some sisters
seem to feel that their brothers are lost to them on their marriage, but
if I may judge by my husband, there is fully as much gain as loss. I am
sure no son or brother could be more devoted to mother and sisters than
he is. Of course the baby is his perfect comfort and delight; but I need
not enlarge on this point, as I suppose you have seen papas with their
first babies. A great sucking of a very small thumb admonishes me that
the little lady in the crib meditates crying for supper, so I must hurry
off my letter.

Abby Lewis Prentiss died on Saturday, January 30, 1847, at the age
of thirty-two. Long and wearisome sufferings, such as usually attend
pulmonary disease, preceded the final struggle. It was toward the close
of a stormy winter's day, that she gently fell asleep. A little while
before she had imagined herself in a "very beautiful region" which her
tongue in vain attempted to describe, surrounded by those she loved.
Among her last half-conscious utterances was the name of her brother
Seargent. The next morning witnessed a scene of such wondrous splendor
and loveliness as made the presence of Death seem almost incredible. The
snow-fall and mist and gloom had ceased; and as the sun rose, clear and
resplendent, every visible object--the earth, trees, houses--shone as
if enameled with gold and pearls and precious stones. It was the Lord's
day; and well did the aspect of nature symbolise the glory of Him, who
is the Resurrection and the Life.

On receiving the news of his sister's death, her brother Seargent,
writing to his mother, thus depicted her character:

My heart bleeds to the core, as I sit down to mingle my tears with
yours, my dear, beloved mother. I can not realise that it is all over;
that I shall never again, in this world, see our dear, dear Abby.
Gladly would I have given my own life to preserve hers. But we have
consolation, even in our extreme grief; for she was so good that we know
she is now in heaven, and freed from all care, unless it be that her
affectionate heart is still troubled for us, whom she loved so well. We
can dwell with satisfaction, after we have overcome the first sharpness
of our grief, upon her angel-like qualities, which made her, long befor