een talking about
to-day;" and then she went up to her room and shut the door.

Miss Roxy accomplished her task with a matter-of-fact distinctness to
which her business-like habits of dealing with sickness and death had
accustomed her, yet with a sympathetic tremor in her voice which
softened the hard directness of her words. "You can take her over to
Portland, if you say so, and get Dr. Wilson's opinion," she said, in
conclusion. "It's best to have all done that can be, though in my mind
the case is decided."

The silence that fell between the three was broken at last by the sound
of a light footstep descending the stairs, and Mara entered among them.

She came forward and threw her arms round Mrs. Pennel's neck, and kissed
her; and then turning, she nestled down in the arms of her old
grandfather, as she had often done in the old days of childhood, and
laid her hand upon his shoulder. There was no sound for a few moments
but one of suppressed weeping; but _she_ did not weep--she lay with
bright calm eyes, as if looking upon some celestial vision.

"It is not so very sad," she said at last, in a gentle voice, "that I
should go there; you are going, too, and grandmamma; we are all going;
and we shall be forever with the Lord. Think of it! think of it!"

Many were the words spoken in that strange communing; and before Miss
Roxy went away, a calmness of solemn rest had settled down on all. The
old family Bible was brought forth, and Zephaniah Pennel read from it
those strange words of strong consolation, which take the sting from
death and the victory from the grave:--

"And I heard a great voice out of heaven. Behold the tabernacle of God
is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people;
and God himself shall be with them and be their God. And God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death,
neither sorrow nor crying, for the former things are passed away."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

OPEN VISION

As Miss Roxy was leaving the dwelling of the Pennels, she met Sally
Kittridge coming toward the house, laughing and singing, as was her
wont. She raised her long, lean forefinger with a gesture of warning.

"What's the matter now, Aunt Roxy? You look as solemn as a hearse."

"None o' your jokin' now, Miss Sally; there _is_ such a thing as serious
things in this 'ere world of our'n, for all you girls never seems to
know it."

"What is the matter, Aunt Roxy?--has a