hear the whetting of the scythe, and then waited for the
smell of the hay to come in at the windows.

"Those maples, on the knoll, are my dear friends. I've been glad with
them in the spring, and sorry with them in the fall, through all these
years. The birds and the dandelions and the violets are all my friends.
I've waited for them every year, and it seemed as if the same ones came
back. You well people can't understand it. They are near to me. I enter
into the life of each one of them, just as you do into the lives of your
human friends. Spirits go everywhere, see everything. That will be too
much. I'm attached to just this spot of earth. And then I'm attached to
myself. I can't realize that I shall be the same, and I don't want to
give myself up, poor miserable creature as I am."

Mary Ellen and I could only look at each other in astonishment. Her
voice, her seeming strength, and, more than all, her conversation,
amazed us. She had always been so trusting, so full of faith in her
Heavenly Father.

The next morning, when Mary Ellen went to her bedside, she found her
lying awake, with her thin, white fingers clasped about her throat. She
looked up with a strange smile, and said,--

"My ruby necklace has come, and next, you know, will be the beautiful
home. It is almost ready, David said. But he brought the necklace, and
clasped it about my throat. It choked me, and I groaned a little. David
went then, and I've been waiting ever since for you to come."

It was noontime when Mary Ellen told me this. I observed that she
trembled. "My dear girl," said I, "what makes you tremble so?"

"Why," said she, in a whisper, "there is truly a red circle about her
throat. I saw it. 'Tis a warning. She's going to die."

"Maybe," I said, "she is going soon to her beautiful home. But we know
no harm can come to our dear sister, she is so good, and so pure." Then,
taking her by the hand, I led her along to Emily's room.

Her mother and Miss Joey stood near, weeping. The old man, with the
Bible upon his knees, sat at the foot of the bed. He had been reading
and praying.

She looked up with a smile, as I entered with Mary Ellen.

"I know," said she, in a perfectly distinct, but low voice, as we drew
near the bedside,--"I know what made me talk so yesterday.".

She paused then, and afterwards spoke with difficulty. We all stood
breathless, bending eagerly forward, that not a word might be lost.

"I know," she repeated, "what i