"a valley of the
shadow." It is not the least significant tribute to one so widely known
as Mrs. Prentiss, that her death has affected with such real sorrow, and
with such a deep sense of loss, this little rural community which has
been her home during a large part of the last ten years. It would have
been hard to find among all who gathered at the funeral services on
Wednesday, a face which did not bear the marks of true sorrow and of
tender sympathy; while from the groups of sunburned farmers gathered
round the door or walking towards the cemetery, were often heard the
words "a great loss."

* * * * *

The funeral took place at the house on Wednesday afternoon, and was
conducted by the Rev. P. S. Pratt, pastor of the old Congregational
Church of Dorset; assisted by Dr. Vincent, and Dr. D. W. Poor. Mr. Pratt
read the twenty-third Psalm and a part of the fourteenth chapter of
John, which was followed by the hymn, "O gift of gifts, O grace of
faith," after which Dr. Poor delivered a most appropriate, tender, and
interesting address. Dr. Vincent then offered prayer, and the hymn
"Nearer, my God, to Thee," was sung, closing the services at the house.
The large assemblage passed in succession by the casket, where lay such
an image of perfect rest as one is rarely favored to see. All traces of
struggle and pain had faded from the expressive face, and nothing was
left but the sweetness of eternal repose.

It was now a little after six o'clock, and the shadows were lengthening
in the valley at the close of one of those rare days of the ripe summer,
which only the hill-countries develop in their perfect loveliness. The
long procession moved from the house, and at the distance of about a
quarter of a mile entered the little cemetery; and as it mounted the
slope on which was the grave, the scene was one of most pathetic beauty.
Standing in the shadow of the hills which bound the valley on the east,
the eye ranged southward to the long, undulating outline of the Green
Mountain, coming round to the Equinox range on the west, "muffled thick"
to its very crest with the green maples and pines, and still farther
round to the bold hills and sloping uplands on the north. Below lay the
quiet village, at our feet "God's acre," with the train of mourners
winding among the white stones. Who could stand there, compassed about
by the mountains, and in the shadow of that great sorrow, and not
whisper the words