At three in the afternoon they all came into the room, as they always did at that hour.  She said a few things, and evidently began to lose her sight, for as Lewis was about to leave the room, she said, “Good-night, L.,” and then to me, “Why, Lizzy dear, you are not going to stay all night?” I said, “Oh yes, don’t you know I promised to stay with A., who will be so lonely?” She looked pleased, but greatly surprised, her mind being so weak, and in a few seconds she laid her restless hands on her breast, her eyes became fixed, and the last gentle breaths began to come and go.  “Is the doctor here?” she asked.  We told her no, and then Mr. S. and the nurse, who were close each side of her, began to repeat a verse or two of Scripture; then seeing she was apparently too far gone to hear, Mr. S. leaned over and whispered, “My darling!” She made no response, on which he said, “She can make no response,” and she said, “But I hear,” gave one or two more gentle little breaths, and was gone.  I forgot to say that after her eyes were fixed, hearing Mr. S. groan, she stopped dying, turned and gave a parting look!  I never saw an easier death, nor such a bright face up to the very last.  One of the doctors coming in, in the morning, was apparently overcome by the extraordinary smile she gave him, for he turned away immediately without a word, and left the house.  I staid, as they wished me to do, till Monday night, when I came home quite used up.  Your sorrow, and the sorrow at Brooklyn, and now this one, have come one after another until it seemed as if there was no end to it; such is life, and we must bear it patiently, knowing the end will be the more joyful for all that saddened the way.

I shall always let you know if anything of special interest occurs in the church or among ourselves.  After loving you so many years, I am not likely to forget you now.  The addresses at Mrs. S.’s funeral will probably be published, and we will send you a copy.  Mr. P. is bearing up bravely, but feels the listlessness of which I spoke, and finds sermonising hard work.  He joins me in love to you.  Do write often.

To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Feb. 16, 1869.

On coming home from church on Sunday afternoon I found one of the Brooklyn family waiting to tell us that another of the girls was very ill, that they were all worn out and nearly frantic, and asking if she might be brought here to be put under the care of some German doctor, as Dr. Smith had given her up.  In the midst of my sorrow for the poor mother, I thought of myself.  How could I, who had not been allowed to invite Miss Lyman here, undertake this terrible care?  You know what a fearful disease it is—­how many convulsions they have; but you don’t know the harm it did me just seeing poor Jennie P. in one.  Yesterday I tried hard to let God manage it, but I know I wished He would manage it so as to spare me; it takes so little to pull me down, and so little to