o longer witness her patient smile, and know
that she was still with us. The pastor of the Baptist church often called
to pray with, and for, the quiet sufferer, which she appreciated very
highly, for she was a Christian in every sense of the word.

On the thirtieth day of August, at about eleven o'clock, A.M., without a
struggle or a groan, her spirit returned to God who gave it. "Sweetly as
babes sleep," she sank into the embrace of death. Happily, triumphantly,
had she seen the grim messenger approach; but she knew whom she had
believed, and that He was able to keep that which she had committed to
Him, unto the resurrection of the just.

She had previously made a confession of her faith in Christ, and had been
buried with Him in baptism. A few days after her demise, a long, sad train
wound its way to the village church yard, where we deposited the remains
of our beloved,--Patience Jane Steward, in the eighteenth year of her age;
and then returned to our desolate house, to realize that she had left a
world of pain and sorrow, where the fairest rose conceals a thorn, the
sweetest cup a bitter drop, for a home where the flowers would never fade,
and where pain, sorrow and death will never come. We all felt the solemn
and impressive warning, "Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think
not, the Son of Man cometh."

As often as I recalled her triumphant, peaceful death, her firm reliance
on God, and sweet submission to His will, I could not forbear contrasting
her departure with that of Mrs. Helm, whose death I have elsewhere
described; and could fervently pray, that I might live the life of the
righteous, that my last end might be like hers.

"Behold the Western evening light,
It melts in deep'ning gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low, the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree,--
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good folks cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills,
The crimson light is shed;
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives,
To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud,
The sunset beam is cast,--
'Tis like the mem'ry left behind,
When loved ones breathe their last.

And now above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the breast of those,
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light,
Its glory