t was. 'Twas the earthy principle in
me--which revived--for a moment--at the last--and then put forth all its
strength. Since I have seen David--it seems pleasant--to go. I can't
tell,--you wouldn't understand,--I couldn't, if the separation--hadn't
begun. I'm not wholly here now." And the fixed, strange look in her face
confirmed the words as they fell from her lips.

She lay for some time very still, breathing every moment fainter and
fainter, but seemingly in no distress.

Suddenly she started. Her face grew radiant. Her gaze seemed fixed on
some point, thousands and thousands of miles away. Clasping her hands
together, she cried out, joyfully,--

"Oh, the beautiful home! the beautiful home!"

'Twas over in an instant. She closed her eyes, turned her head a little
on the pillow, and breathed her life away as softly and peacefully as a
poor tired child sinks away to sleep.

"And I saw the angels of God ascending and descending," I said,
earnestly. For I felt that one whose spiritual eyes were opened might
certainly do so.

Late in the afternoon, when the heat of the day was past, I walked out
to the clump of maples on the knoll. Mary Ellen was already there.

"Yes," said I, sitting down by her side, upon the grass, "we will lay
her here among her friends. And we will place here a white marble
monument."

"I wish," said Mary Ellen, looking timidly up in my face, "that it could
be in memory of David, too." She said this with tears in her eyes, and
an unsteady voice.

As I sit writing, I can see from my window the simple white monument,
which Mary Ellen and I planned together. The grass and field-flowers are
growing all about it, and the birds, Emily's birds, are singing in the
branches above. It has only this inscription,--

"_In memory of David and Emily_."

"Six children,--and only one grave to show for all of them!" groaned the
poor old mother, when we first led her out to show her the stone.

But there was shortly another grave beneath the maples; for the worn-out
old woman soon sank after Emily's death, and with her last breath begged
to be laid by her side.

Only the old man and Miss Joey left. Still I could not go away. No other
place seemed like home. And besides, I had found out, long ago, my own
secret. It had been revealed to me, day by day, as I watched Mary Ellen
in the sick-room of Emily,--as I observed her patience, her sweetness,
her tenderness!

And my secret came upon me with an overw