PTER XII. -- THE MOTHER'S LAST ILLNESS.

IT was now the autumn of 1863, and Will was a well-grown young man,
tall, strong, and athletic, though not yet quite eighteen years old. Our
oldest sister, Julia, had been married, the spring preceding, to Mr. J.
A. Goodman.

Mother had been growing weaker from day to day; being with her
constantly, we had not remarked the change for the worse; but Will was
much shocked by the transformation which a few months had wrought. Only
an indomitable will power had enabled her to overcome the infirmities of
the body, and now it seemed to us as if her flesh had been refined away,
leaving only the sweet and beautiful spirit.

Will reached home none too soon, for only three weeks after his return
the doctor told mother that only a few hours were left to her, and if
she had any last messages, it were best that she communicate them at
once. That evening the children were called in, one by one, to receive
her blessing and farewell. Mother was an earnest Christian character,
but at that time I alone of all the children appeared religiously
disposed. Young as I was, the solemnity of the hour when she charged me
with the spiritual welfare of the family has remained with me through
all the years that have gone. Calling me to her side, she sought to
impress upon my childish mind, not the sorrow of death, but the glory
of the resurrection. Then, as if she were setting forth upon a pleasant
journey, she bade me good by, and I kissed her for the last time in
life. When next I saw her face it was cold and quiet. The beautiful
soul had forsaken its dwelling-place of clay, and passed on through the
Invisible, to wait, a glorified spirit, on the farther shore for the
coming of the loved ones whose life-story was as yet unfinished.

Julia and Will remained with her throughout the night. Just before
death there came to her a brief season of long-lost animation, the
last flicker of the torch before darkness. She talked to them almost
continuously until the dawn. Into their hands was given the task of
educating the others of the family, and on their hearts and consciences
the charge was graven. Charlie, who was born during the early Kansas
troubles, had ever been a delicate child, and he lay an especial burden
on her mind.

"If," she said, "it be possible for the dead to call the living, I shall
call Charlie to me."

Within the space of a year, Charlie, too, was gone; and who shall say
that the yearnin