"Your mother asked me to write to you while I am here, in your home, so
that it may seem like a letter from her. It is evening and I am writing
at the kitchen table with the light of one candle. How did I come to be
here at night? I came over this afternoon to see poor grandma and found
your mother alone with her; grandma had been in bed three days and the
doctor said she was dying of old age. She did not appear to suffer, she
lay very still, recognizing us, but not speaking even when we spoke to
her.

"How I did want to say something to help her, for I was afraid she might
be troubled, she was always so 'afraid' when she thought about joining
the Church. But as I stood alone, looking down at her, I did not dare
speak. I did not like to awaken her if she were comfortably asleep. Then
I thought how wicked I was to withhold a word when she might hear it and
be comforted and her fear taken away, so I stooped over and said close
to her ear, 'Grandma,' and all she answered was, in her old way, 'Most a
hundred;' and then I said, '"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all
sin, even the sins of most a hundred years;"' and she understood, for she
moaned, 'I've been very wicked;' and all I could do was to say again,
'"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin."' She made no reply
and we think she did not speak again, for your mother's cousin, Cynthy,
was with her at the last and says she bent over her and found that she
did not breathe, and all the time she was with her she did not once
speak.

"The house is so still, they all move around so softly and speak in
whispers. Your mother thinks you may be in Philadelphia or Baltimore when
this reaches New York, and that you will not hear in time to come to the
funeral. I hope you can come; she does _so_ want to see you. She says
once a year is so seldom to see her youngest boy. I believe I haven't
seen you since the day you brought me the plate so long, so long ago.
I've been away both times since when you were home. I have kept my
promise, I think; I do not think I have missed one letter day in writing
to you. I have come to see your mother as often as I could. Grandma will
not be buried till the fifth; they have decided upon that day hoping you
can get here by that time. Morris was to come for me if I did not get
home before dark and there's the sound of sleigh bells now. Here comes
your mother with her message. She says: 'Tell Hollis to come if he _any
way_ can; I sha