e
directed me, and, oh! Clara, I can find no words by which to describe to
you what I saw. It so far surpassed anything pertaining to this world
that I am unable to give you any description of it. I felt an intense
desire to cross the narrow stream which separated me from the beautiful
place. I enquired of your father if I could not with him cross the
stream and enter those golden gates, which I could plainly see before
me. He replied, 'No, my dear Alice, every one must cross this river
_alone_. You must go back for a brief period, as you have yet a mission
to perform before taking your final leave of earth. You must comfort the
sorrowing heart of our child 'ere you leave her. Tell her of the home
which I now inherit, where there is also a place prepared for you and
for her, if you so live as to be found worthy to enter those gates which
you see before you.' He then said, 'I must now leave you, and you must
return to our Clara for a few brief days, when you will be summoned to
rejoin me in yonder blissful abode.' I turned to make some further
remark to him, but he had gone from my sight, and I awoke with my mind
deeply impressed by my dream. But now," added my mother, to me, "the
bitterness of death is already past. It is for you only that I grieve. I
trust however, that instead of grieving immoderately for your mother you
will endeavor to discharge your duty in whatever position it may please
God to place you, and so live that whenever you may be called from this
world it may be to meet your mother in Heaven. Since my illness my mind
has been much exercised regarding my own state as a sinner; for be
assured, Clara, that, in the near prospect of death, we find in
ourselves much that is unworthy, which had before escaped our notice
while in the enjoyment of health. But I am now happy while I tell you
that all is peace with me. I now feel willing to depart whenever it is
the will of my Heavenly Father to call me hence, and I feel confident
that in a very few days I shall be summoned from earth. I am sorry to
see you grieve," said my mother, for I was weeping bitterly; "endeavor
to derive consolation from what I have said; and be thankful that when I
leave you it will be to rejoin your dear father where there is neither
sorrow nor sighing."

Seeing that my tears agitated my mother, I succeeded in checking them,
and assumed an air of composure, which I was far from feeling. After the
above conversation with me, my mother en