ny, and then the sweet features all
settled into a smile of peace, and "mortality was swallowed up of life."

My uncle laid him down, and looked one moment at his beautiful face. It
was too much for his principles, too much for his consistency, and "he
lifted up his voice and wept."

The next morning was the Sabbath--the funeral day--and it rose with
"breath all incense and with cheek all bloom." Uncle Abel was as calm
and collected as ever; but in his face there was a sorrow-stricken
appearance touching to behold. I remember him at family prayers, as he
bent over the great Bible and began the psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our
dwelling-place in all generations." Apparently he was touched by the
melancholy splendor of the poetry, for after reading a few verses he
stopped. There was a dead silence, interrupted only by the tick of the
clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly, and tried to go on, but in vain.
He closed the book, and kneeled down to prayer. The energy of sorrow
broke through his usual formal reverence, and his language flowed forth
with a deep and sorrowful pathos which I shall never forget. The God so
much reverenced, so much feared, seemed to draw near to him as a friend
and comforter, his refuge and strength, "a very present help in time of
trouble."

My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the room of the departed one. He
uncovered the face. It was set with the seal of death; but O, how
surpassingly lovely! The brilliancy of life was gone, but that pure,
transparent face was touched with a mysterious, triumphant brightness,
which seemed like the dawning of heaven.

My uncle looked long and earnestly. He felt the beauty of what he gazed
on; his heart was softened, but he had no words for his feelings. He
left the room unconsciously, and stood in the front door. The morning
was bright, the bells were ringing for church, the birds were singing
merrily, and the pet squirrel of little Edward was frolicking about the
door. My uncle watched him as he ran first up one tree, and then down
and up another, and then over the fence, whisking his brush and
chattering just as if nothing was the matter.

With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth, "How happy that _cretur'_ is!
Well, the Lord's will be done."

That day the dust was committed to dust, amid the lamentations of all
who had known little Edward. Years have passed since then, and all that
is mortal of my uncle has long since been gathered to his fathers; but
his