Hundreds of heart-stirring memories crowd upon me as I write, but it is impossible to give them expression.  Her books give you the truest transcript of herself.  She wrote, as she talked, from the heart.  To those who knew her, a written page in almost any one of them recalls her image with the vividness of a portrait; and they can almost hear her musical voice as they read it themselves.  But, alas! in reality—­

  No more her low sweet accents can we hear
  No more our plaints can reach her patient ear. 
  O! loved and lost, oh! trusted, tried, and true,
  O! tender, pitying eyes forever sealed;
  How can we bear to speak our last adieu? 
  How to the grave the precious casket yield,
  And to those old familiar places go
  That knew thee once, and never more shall know?

  I hear from heaven a voice angelic cry,
  “Blessed, thrice blessed are the dead who lie
  Beneath the flowery sod and graven stone.” 
  “Yea,” saith the answering Spirit, “for they rest
  Forever from the labors they have done. 
  Their works do follow them to regions blest;
  No stain hereafter can their lustre dim;
  The dead in Christ from henceforth live in Him.”

  O! doubly dear transfigured friend on high,
  We, through our tears, behold thine eyelids dry. 
  By Him who suffered once, and once was dead,
  But liveth evermore through endless days,
  God hath encircled thy redeemed head
  With rays of glory and eternal praise,
  And with His own kind hand wiped every trace
  Of tears, and pain and sorrow from thy face.

  C. W.
  WILDWOOD, March 7, 1880.

One of the notes referred to is as follows: 

DEAR MRS. WASHBURN:—­If you judge by my handwriting, you will have to conclude that I am 100 years old.  But it all comes of my carrying a heavy bag too long, and is all my own fault for trying to do too many errands in one trip.  Your dear little chair, the like of which I should love to give to 540 people, only cost $2.50, so I enclose my check for the rest of your $10.  We sent off Mrs. Badger’s parcel early this morning.  I hope digging and driving and packing and climbing in my behalf, has not quite killed you.  A lot of flowers in two boxes came to me from Matteawan while I was gone, and as my waitress fancied I had been shopping—­as if I should shop at East River!—­she did not open the boxes or inform the children, so the spectacle of withered beauty was not very agreeable.  A. and M. send love and thanks.  The flowers you gave me look beautifully.  Give our love to Mr. W. and Julia, and write about her.  We shall not soon forget our charming visit to East River!

In acknowledging this note Mrs. Washburn alludes to one of Mrs. Prentiss’ most striking traits—­the eager promptitude with which she would execute little commissions for her friends.  It was as if she had taken a vow that there should not be one instant’s delay.