It seemed as if I heard the crack of doom and that the world was of a sudden going to pieces.  I went to G.’s room, woke him, told him what I feared, and desired him to go for Dr. Slocum as quickly as possible.  He was dressed in an instant, as it were, and gone.  In the meantime I woke H., and told him his mother, I feared, was dying.  When Dr. Slocum arrived he felt her pulse, looked at her and listened to her breathing for a minute or two, and then, turning slowly to me, said, It is death! This was not far from four o’clock.  I asked if I had better send at once for Dr. Wyman?  “He can do nothing for her,” was the reply, “but you had better send.”  I requested G. to call Albert, and tell him to go for Dr. W. as fast as possible.  “I will saddle Prince and go myself,” G. said; and in a few minutes he was riding rapidly towards Factory Point.  I then knocked at Dr. Poor’s door.  Upon opening it and being told what was coming, he was so completely stunned that he could with difficulty utter a word.  He had arrived the previous afternoon on the same train by which Dr. Vincent left.  I had tried by telegraph to prevent his coming; but a kind Providence so ordered it that my message reached Burlington, where he had been on a visit, just after he had started for Dorset.

The night, like that of Sunday, was as day for brightness.  Never shall I forget its wondrous beauty, although it seemed only a mockery of my distress.  Soon after the first rays of the sun appeared, Dr. Wyman came, but only to repeat, It is death.  I asked him how long she might be a dying.  “Perhaps several hours; but she may drop away at any moment.”  We all gathered about her bed and watched the ebbing tide of life.  The girls were already kneeling together on the left side.  They never changed their posture for more than four hours; they wept, but made no noise.  The boys stood at the foot of the bed, deeply moved, but calm and self-possessed.  The strain was fearful; and yet it was relieved by blessed thoughts and consolations.  Although the chamber of death, it was the chamber of peace, and a light not of earth shone down upon us all.  He who was seen walking, unhurt, in the midst of the fire and whose form was like the Son of God, seemed to overshadow us with His presence.

As the end drew near, we all knelt together and my old friend, Dr. Poor, commended the departing spirit to God and invoked for us, who were about to be so heavily bereaved, the solace and support of the blessed Comforter....  The breathing had now grown slower and less convulsive, and at length became gentle almost like that of one asleep; the distressed look changed into a look of sweet repose; the eyes shut; the lips closed; and the whole scene recalled her own lines: 

  Oh, where are words to tell the joy unpriced
  Of the rich heart, that breasting waves no more,
    Drifts thus to shore,
  Laden with peace and tending unto Christ!