so impressed with the sanctity of the spot that it
seems to me I dropped, but dropped very softly beside him. "Be still
and know that I am God," seemed to be spoken by the Holy One, into my
ear and heart. And I was still. I thought, of course, this was an
accident, but when I heard from his own pale, slightly parted lips, as
he answered some one who asked, "Who did this, Mr. Charless," that he
was murdered!

Where! Who! I exclaimed, could do this deed! But instantly
turning to my husband, I said, "He is more to be pitied than your are,
my dear, for he is a fiend! not a man."

Oh, Oh, Oh! If my Father, God, had then lifted up the veil and
showed me all I have passed through since, I must have died. But he
does not try us more than we are able to bear. Indeed he bestowed such
rich spiritual blessings upon us (your dear mother and myself) in that
dark hour, that we were astonishingly sustained. We were filled with
gratitude because "dear father" was ready. We knew that he had nothing
to do, but to die. Like Stephen, he "fell asleep."

My beloved children, I have his dying words written down, and
after I show you "what the newspapers say," and you have read his
funeral sermon, perhaps I will tell you more about the last moments of
your honored, it must be forever honored, grandfather.

Yours, affectionately, GRANDMA.

Belmont, March, 1861.

Letter Fifteen

My Dear Grandchildren:

It has been nearly two years since I last wrote to you, since
which time, war has desolated our once prosperous and happy country,
and drenched its soil with the blood of her sons. All has been
excitement and turmoil. Many widows and orphans have been made--and
the wail of anguish has been poured into the ear of the God of Sabbath.
But I turn from the revolting facts which belong to the history of the
nation--to consider the last sad hours of your revered grandfather,
and to copy for your instruction and admonition his dying words.

After having seen something of his daily walk through life, thought upon
his sad and unexpected death, and in imagination mingled
with the throng that followed him to his last resting place--your mind
will naturally revert to the lonely homestead and its desolate inmates.
But words cannot picture the anguished of our hearts, the gloom and
loneliness of our home--after the last relic of its light and glory
had passed away from our view. So you will follow me, my dear
children,