saved by
grace."

The pastor and elder withdrew, Mr. Travilla going with them to the door.
Elsie brought a cordial and held it to her mother's lips, Mr. Dinsmore
gently raising her head. "Thank you both," she said, with the courtesy for
which she had ever been distinguished. Then, as Mr. Dinsmore settled her
more comfortably on her pillows, and Elsie set aside the empty cup,
"Horace, my friend, farewell till we meet in a better land. Elsie,
darling," laying her pale thin hand on the bowed head, "you have been a
dear, dear daughter to me, such a comfort, such a blessing! May the Lord
reward you."

Elsie had much ado to control her feelings. Her father passed his arm
about her waist and made her rest her head upon his shoulder.

"Mother, how are you now?" asked Mr. Travilla, coming in and taking his
place on his wife's other side, close by the bed of the dying one.

"All is peace, peace, the sweetest peace, I have nothing to do but to die,
I am in the river, but the Lord upholdeth me with His hand, and I have
almost reached the farther shore."

She then asked for the babe, kissed and blessed it, and bade her son
good-bye.

"Sing to me, children, the twenty-third psalm."

Controlling their emotion by a strong effort, that they might minister to
her comfort, they sang; the three voices blending in sweet harmony.

"Thank you," she said again, as the last strain died away. "Hark! I hear
sweeter, richer melody, the angels have come for me, Jesus is here. Lord
Jesus receive my spirit."

There was an enraptured upward glance, an ecstatic smile, then the eyes
closed and all was still; without a struggle or a groan the spirit had
dropped its tenement of clay and sped away on its upward flight.

It was like a translation; a deep hush filled the room, while for a moment
they seemed almost to see the "glory that dwelleth in Immanuel's land."
They scarcely wept, their joy for her, the ransomed of the Lord, almost
swallowing up their grief for themselves.

But soon Elsie began to tremble violently, shudder after shudder shaking
her whole frame, and in sudden alarm her husband and father led her from
the room.

"Oh. Elsie, my darling, my precious wife!" cried Travilla, in a tone of
agony, as they laid her upon a sofa in her boudoir, "are you ill? are you
in pain?"

"Give way, daughter, and let the tears come," said Mr. Dinsmore, tenderly
bending over her and gently smoothing her hair; "it will do you good,
bring relief