nding as she was on the brink
of that last fatal plunge!

Mr. Alford suggested that the fatigue of talking would wear upon the
enfeebled man, and advised that he should be left to get some rest, if
possible.

"To-morrow is S-Sabba'-day, ef I've counted right," said Mr. Hardwick.
"I sh-should like to see the sun on the st-heeple once more."

"Dear uncle, I hope you may see it a great many times. We must leave
you to rest."

"Good-night, mum-my children," he replied. "God b-bless you all! Let
me put my hands on your h-heads."

They knelt by his bedside, and he blessed them fervently. Mr. Alford
and Lizzie remained to attend upon him, and the others withdrew.

The night passed, how wearily! None could sleep, for through all the
air there was a presage of sorrow, a solemn "tingling silentness," to
which their senses were painfully alive. Who, that has passed the
interminable gloomy hours that preceded the departure of a loved and
venerated friend into the world of spirits, does not remember this
unutterable suspense, this fruitless struggle with eternal decrees,
this clinging of affection to the parting soul? What a sinking of the
heart even the recollection of such a scene produces!

The day dawned upon sleepless, tear-stained eyes. The dying man was
conscious, cheerful, and calmly breathing. In the adjoining room the
family sat beside the table on which was spread their untasted
breakfast.

The bell began to ring for meeting. Mr. Hardwick roused up at the
sound, and called for his children. He blessed them again, and placed
his hands on their bowed heads in turn. He thought of the psalms which
he had so often led, and he asked all to join in singing Billings's
"Jordan."

"There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain."

With faltering voices they sang the triumphal hymn. The old man's
eyes were fixed upon the steeple, which pointed upward through the
clear air, and shone in the golden light of the sun. He kept time with
a feeble movement, and once or twice essayed to raise his own wavering
voice. A smile of heavenly beauty played over his pallid features as
the music ceased,--a radiance like that crimson glow which covers the
mountain-top at dawn. He spoke almost inaudibly, as if in a trance;
then repeating with a musical flow the words of his favorite author,

"Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud up