ven her in special charge to this daughter, and she
wished to live that she might educate her. She made the transfer of her
little trust with calmness, and then her "Good night" was uttered with a
gentle playfulness, like that of her early days.

Nor was her frame of mind an excitement, or a fictitious experience, to
end with sleep. The next forenoon she renewed the conversation. She
said, "In the night I awoke many times, and always with this thought--I
am not going to live. Instead of fear and dread, peace came with it.
Names of Christ flowed in upon my mind; and once I awoke with these
words in my thoughts--'And there shall be no night there.' Now I know
that I am to die, I feel less nervous. I have a calm, unruffled
feeling." She expressed some natural apprehensions, only, about the
possibility of dissolution not having occurred when we should suppose
that she was no more. I told her how kindly God had ordered it that we
do not all die together, but one by one, the survivors doing all that
the departed would desire--which satisfied her, and removed her only
fear.

She asked leave to make a request respecting her grave; that, if any
device were placed upon the stone, it might be of flowers, which had
been such a joy and consolation to her in her sickness. She named the
lily-of-the-valley and rose buds. "I love the white flowers," said she.
"If you think best, let them be represented in some simple way... One
great desire which I have had was to assort some leaves of flowers into
forms for you. As my bouquets fell to pieces; I gathered the best
petals, and leaves, and sprigs, and I have them in a book;" which, at
her request, I then reached for her. I turned the pages. The book was
full of beautiful relics from tokens of remembrance which kind friends
had sent to her, and among them were some curiously mottled, green and
rose-colored, petals, which she had designed for a wreath, on the first
page of the little herbarium, which it was her intention to prepare; and
then, with great hesitancy, and protesting their unworthiness, she
repeated these simple lines, which she had composed for an inscription
within the wreath. I wrote them down from her lips:

TO MY FATHER.

These flowers, which gave me such comfort and hope,
I pressed, in my sickness, for you;
Accept them, though faded; they never will droop;
And believe that my heart is there too.

They who showered these tokens of their regard upo