About half-past seven it became evident that the mortal struggle was on the point of ending.  For several minutes we could scarcely tell whether she still lived or not; and at twenty minutes before eight she drew one long breath and all was over.

Again we knelt together, and in our behalf Dr. Poor gave thanks to Almighty God for the blessed saint now at rest in Him—­and for all she had been to us and all she had done for Him, through the grace of Christ her Saviour.

The following account of the burial was written by the Rev. Dr. Vincent and appeared in the New York Evangelist: 

DORSET, VT. August 16, 1878.

This lovely valley has been, for the past few days, “a valley of the shadow.”  It is not the least significant tribute to one so widely known as Mrs. Prentiss, that her death has affected with such real sorrow, and with such a deep sense of loss, this little rural community which has been her home during a large part of the last ten years.  It would have been hard to find among all who gathered at the funeral services on Wednesday, a face which did not bear the marks of true sorrow and of tender sympathy; while from the groups of sunburned farmers gathered round the door or walking towards the cemetery, were often heard the words “a great loss.”

* * * * *

The funeral took place at the house on Wednesday afternoon, and was conducted by the Rev. P. S. Pratt, pastor of the old Congregational Church of Dorset; assisted by Dr. Vincent, and Dr. D. W. Poor.  Mr. Pratt read the twenty-third Psalm and a part of the fourteenth chapter of John, which was followed by the hymn, “O gift of gifts, O grace of faith,” after which Dr. Poor delivered a most appropriate, tender, and interesting address.  Dr. Vincent then offered prayer, and the hymn “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” was sung, closing the services at the house.  The large assemblage passed in succession by the casket, where lay such an image of perfect rest as one is rarely favored to see.  All traces of struggle and pain had faded from the expressive face, and nothing was left but the sweetness of eternal repose.

It was now a little after six o’clock, and the shadows were lengthening in the valley at the close of one of those rare days of the ripe summer, which only the hill-countries develop in their perfect loveliness.  The long procession moved from the house, and at the distance of about a quarter of a mile entered the little cemetery; and as it mounted the slope on which was the grave, the scene was one of most pathetic beauty.  Standing in the shadow of the hills which bound the valley on the east, the eye ranged southward to the long, undulating outline of the Green Mountain, coming round to the Equinox range on the west, “muffled thick” to its very crest with the green maples and pines, and still farther round to the bold hills and sloping uplands on the north.  Below lay the quiet village, at our feet “God’s acre,” with the train of mourners winding among the white stones.  Who could stand there, compassed about by the mountains, and in the shadow of that great sorrow, and not whisper the words of the Pilgrim Psalm, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.  Whence should help come to me?  My help cometh from Jehovah, who made heaven and earth.”