After breakfast she went to her workshop and painted six large titles; and then went down to the piazza and painted a chair for Hatty.  She also assisted the girls in watering her flowers.  “She came round to the back stoop Thursday morning (one of the servants told me afterwards) and I said to her, ‘Mis Prentiss, and how d’ye feel?’ and she said, ’Ellen, I feel weak, but I shall be all right when I get my strength.’” I still felt troubled about her holding the Bible-reading and tried to dissuade her from attempting it.  She had set her heart upon it, however, and said that the disappointment at giving it up would be worse than the exertion of holding it.  Her preparation was all made; the ladies would be there, some of them from a distance, expecting to see her, and she could not bear to lose the meeting.  So I yielded.  We were expecting Dr. Vincent by the afternoon train and I was to go to the station for him.  Just as I was seated in the carriage and was about to start, she came out on the porch, already dressed for the Bible-reading, and with an expression of infinite sweetness, half playful and half solemn, pointing at me with her finger, said slowly:  “You pray—­one—­little—­prayer for me.”  Never shall I forget that arch expression—­so loving, so spiritual, and yet so stamped with marks of suffering—­the peculiar tones of her voice, or that dear little gesture!

Of her last Bible-reading the following brief account is prepared from the recollections kindly furnished me by several of the ladies who were present: 

HER LAST BIBLE-READING.

There was something very impressive in Mrs. Prentiss’ Bible-readings.  She seemed not unlike her gifted father in the power she possessed of captivating those who heard her.  Her manner was perfectly natural, quiet, and even shy; it evidently cost her considerable effort to speak in the presence of so many listeners.  She rarely looked round or even looked up; but a sort of magnetic influence attracted every eye to her and held all our hearts in breathless attention.  Her style was entirely conversational; her sentences were short, clear as crystal, full of happy turns, and always fresh and to the point.  The tones of her voice were peculiar; I scarcely know how to describe them; they had such a fine, subtle, womanly quality, were touched—­especially at this last reading—­with such tenderness and depth of feeling; I only know that as we heard them, it was almost as if we were listening to the voice of an angel!  And they are, I am sure, echoing still in all our memories.

The first glance at her, as she entered the room, a little before three o’clock on the 8th of August, showed that she was not well.  Her eyes were unusually bright, but the marks of recent or approaching illness were stamped upon her countenance.  It was lighted up, indeed, with even unwonted animation and spiritual beauty; but it had also a pale and wearied look.  The reading was usually opened with a silent