that world; then
all is known, and the stability of life becomes suspected."

"The home of many," I replied, "is undisturbed for years!"

"Yes, and how sweet a thing is love of home! It is not acquired, I am
sure. It is a feeling that has its origin elsewhere. It is born with us;
brought from another world, to carry us on in this with joy. It attaches
to the humblest heart that ever throbbed."

"Dear Ellen!" I exclaimed, "how little has sorrow to do with your
affliction!"

"And why, dear Caleb? Have you never found that the difficulties of the
broad day melt away beneath the influences of the quiet lovely night?
Have you never been perplexed in the bustle and tumult of the day, and
has not truth revealed itself when all was dark and still? This is my
night, and in sickness I have seen the eye of God upon me, and heard his
words, as I have never seen and heard before?"

It was in this manner that she would talk, not more disturbed, nay, not
so much, as when in happier times I never heard her speak of the
troubles and anxieties of her poor villagers. No complaint--no mournful
accents escaped her lips. If at times the soaring spirit was repressed,
dejected, the living--the loved ones whom she must leave behind her had
possession of her thoughts, and loaded them with pain. Who would wait
upon her father? Who would attend to all his little wants? Who could
understand his nature as she had learnt it--and who would live to
comfort and to cheer his days? These questions she has asked herself,
whilst her only answers have been her struggling tears.

The days were travelling fast; each one taking from the doomed
girl--years of life. She dwindled and wasted; and became at length less
than a shadow of her former self. Why linger on the narrative? Autumn
arrived, and, with the general decay--she died. A few hours before her
death she summoned me to her bedside, and acquainted me with her
fast-approaching dissolution. "It is the day," she said, speaking with
difficulty--"I am sure of it. I have watched that branch for many
days--look--it is quite bare. Its last yellow leaf has fallen--I shall
not survive it." I gazed upon her; her eye was brighter than ever. It
sparkled again, and most beautiful she looked. But death was there--and
her soul eager to give him all that he could claim!

"You are quite happy, dearest Ellen!" I exclaimed, weeping on her thin
emaciated hand.

"Most happy, beloved. Do not grieve--be resigned--be jo