began to be lulled into transient repose, the spirit in its extasy seemed to revolt against such oppression, desirous to escape to that region, where it should slumber no more, through fullness of bliss.
Calling to her bedside, at the dawn of morning, the old warriour, for her mother for several nights had watched beside her, she said—
"Knowest thou, Father, that I am now about to leave thee?"
Fixing his keen glance upon her for a moment, and kneeling at her side, he answered—
"I know it, my daughter. Thy blue eye hath already the light of that sky to which thou art ascending. Thy brow hath the smile of the angels who wait for thee."
Martha covered her face with her hands, and hid it on the couch, fearful lest she might see agony in one so beloved. Yet she fixed on that pallid countenance another long, tender gaze, as the expiring voice said—
"I go, where is no shade of complexion—no trace of sorrow. I go to meet my parents, who died in faith; my Edward, whose trust was in his Redeemer. I shall see thy daughter, and she will be my sister, where all is love. Father! Mother! that God, whom you have learned to worship, whose spirit dwells in your hearts, guide you thither also."
Extending to each a hand, cold as marble, she said—
"I was a stranger, and ye took me in: sick, and ye
