joyed a night of tranquil
repose. I now felt the certainty of her death, and prayed for strength
to meet the sorrow which that event would bring to me.

So calm and peaceful were the last days of my mother's life that we
could hardly recognize the presence of the King of Terrors, till the
damps of death were gathering upon her brow. She died at sunset on a
mild evening in September. She had passed the day almost entirely free
from pain. Toward evening she slept for an hour; on waking, she said to
me,--

"My dear child, I think the hour of my departure has arrived. I feel
that I am dying."

I now observed that look upon the countenance of my mother which tells
us that a loved friend is no longer ours. She requested me to call Aunt
Patience, which I instantly did. I also sent a hasty summons to her
physician, although it was needless, for she was even then entering the
dark valley. The physician soon arrived, and after one look at my
mother, said to me, in a low voice,--

"My dear Miss Roscom, as a physician, I can be of no further use, but as
a friend, I will remain with you."

The physician was an old and valued friend, being the same who had stood
by the death-bed of my father, and he deeply sympathized with me in
this, my second bereavement.

As I stood by my mother, my grief was not noisy; it was far too deep
and powerful for that. Outwardly, I was quite calm. My mother had
endeavored to prepare my mind for this hour. I had also prayed for
strength to meet it with fortitude and resignation; but those who have
stood by the dying bed of a fond mother may understand my sorrow. My
mother was spared much of the suffering which attends the last moments
of many. She seemed to be softly breathing her life away. After lying
for some time tranquil and quiet, she suddenly opened her eyes and
looked from one to the other of us. As they rested upon me, she made a
sign that I should go nearer to her.

"Weep not, my dear child," said she, in a whisper; "be faithful, and you
will yet meet me in heaven."

She also addressed a few words of like import to Aunt Patience.
Suddenly, she raised her hands, and, as she looked upward, with a smile
upon her countenance, we heard a sigh--and her spirit had returned unto
God Who gave it.

I was borne from the apartment in a state of insensibility, and, when I
awoke to consciousness, the doctor and Aunt Patience were standing at my
bedside. After administering a quieting draught, the