yful. I have a
word to say. Nurse," she continued, calling to her attendant--"the
drawing."

The nurse placed in her hand the sketch which she had taken of my
favourite scene.

"Do you remember, love?" said she. "Keep it, for Ellen--you loved that
spot--oh, so did I!--and you will love it still. There is another
sketch, you will find it by and by--afterwards--when I am----It is in my
desk. Keep that too, for Ellen, will you? It is the last drawing I have
made."

I sat by and bit my lips to crush my grief, but I would not be silent
whilst my heart as breaking.

"You should rejoice, dear," continued Ellen solemnly. "We did not expect
this separation so very soon; but it is better now than later. Be sure
it is merciful and good. Prepare for this hour, Caleb; and when it
comes, you will be so calm, so ready to depart. How short is life! Do
not waste the precious hours. Read from St John, dearest--the eleventh
chapter. It is all sweetness and consolation."

The sun was dropping slowly into the west, leaving behind him a deep red
glow that illuminated the hills, and burnished the windows of the
sick-chamber. The wind moaned, and, sweeping the sere leaves at
intervals, threatened a tempest. There was a solemn stillness in the
parsonage, around whose gate--weeping in silence, without heart to
speak, or wish to make their sorrow known--were collected a host of
humble creatures--the poorest but sincerest friends of Ellen--the
villagers who had been her care. They waited and lingered for the heavy
news, which they were told must come to them this day; and prayed
secretly--every one of them, old and young--for mercy on the sufferer's
soul! And she, whose gentle spirit is about to flit, lies peacefully,
and but half-conscious of the sounds that pass to heaven on her behalf.
Her father, Mayhew, and I, kneel round her bed, and the minister in
supplicating tones, where nature does not interpose, dedicates the
virgin to _His_ favour whose love she has applied so well. He ceases,
for a whisper has escaped her lips. We listen all. "_Oh, this is
peace_!" she utters faintly, but most audibly, and the scene is over.

"It is a dream," said the minister, when we parted for the night--I with
the vain hope to forget in sleep the circumstances of the day--the
father to stray unwittingly into _her_ former room, and amongst the
hundred objects connected with the happy memory of the departed.

The picture of which my Ellen had spoken, I obt