No sooner had Lucy’s solemn tones ceased than I passed through the crowd of weeping and still kneeling blacks, and entered my sister’s room.  Grace was reclining in an easy chair; her eyes closed, her hands clasped together, but lying on her knees, and her whole attitude and air proclaiming a momentary but total abstraction of the spirit.  I do not think she heard my footstep at all, and I stood at her side an instant, uncertain whether to let her know of my presence, or not.  At this instant I caught the eye of Lucy, who seemed intent on the wish to speak to me.  Grace had three or four small rooms that communicated with each other, in her part of the dwelling; and into one of these, which served as a sort of boudoir, though the name was then unknown in America, I followed the dear girl, whose speaking but sad look had bidden me do so.

“Is my father near at hand?” Lucy asked, with an interest I did not understand, since she must have known he intended to remain at his own residence, in readiness for the afternoon service.

“He is not.  You forget he has to attend to evening prayers.”

“I have sent for him—­Miles,” taking one of my hands in both her own, with the tenderness a mother would manifest to a very dear child, “dear Miles, you must summon all your fortitude.”

“Is my sister worse?” I demanded, huskily; for, prepared as I was for the result, I was not expecting it by any means so soon.

“I cannot call it worse, Miles, to be about to be called away to God in such a frame of mind.  But it is proper I should tell you all.  Rather less than an hour since, Grace told me that the hour was at hand.  She has the knowledge of her approaching end, though she would not let me send for you.  She said you would have ample time to witness it all.  For my father, however, I have sent, and he must soon be here.”

“Almighty Providence!  Lucy, do you really think we shall lose Grace so soon?”

“As it is the will of God to take her from us, Miles, I can scarce repine that her end should be so easy, and, in all respects, so tranquil.”

So long as memory is granted to me, will the picture that Lucy presented at that moment remain vividly impressed on my mind.  She loved Grace as a most dear sister; loved her as an affectionate, generous-minded, devoted woman alone can love; and yet, so keenly was she alive to the nature of the communication it was her duty to make, that concern for me alone reigned in her saddened and anxious eye.  Her mind had schooled itself to bear its own grief; and meek, believing, and disposed to foresee all that her profound faith taught her to hope, I do believe she considered my sister a subject of envy rather than of regret, though her solicitude on my account was so absorbing.  This generous self-denial touched my feelings in more ways than one, enabling me to command myself to a degree that might otherwise have been out of my power, during the few succeeding hours.  I felt ashamed to manifest all I endured in the presence of so much meek but pious fortitude, and that exhibited by one whose heart I so well knew to be the very seat of the best human affections.  The sad smile that momentarily illuminated Lucy’s countenance, as she gazed anxiously in my face when speaking, was full of submissive hope and Christian faith.