Then her sorrow and anxiety for Rose were great, and all the more because, Mrs. Travilla being then at the worst, she could very seldom leave her for even the shortest call at the Oaks.

In the afternoon of a sweet bright Sabbath in March, a little group gathered in Mrs. Travilla’s room.  Her pastor was there:  a man of large heart full of tender sympathy for the sick, the suffering, the bereaved, the poor, the distressed in mind, body, or estate; a man mighty in the Scriptures; with its warnings, its counsels, its assurances, its sweet and precious promises ever ready on his tongue; one who by much study of the Bible, accompanied by fervent prayer for the wisdom promised to him that asks it, had learned to wield wisely and with success “the sword of the Spirit which is the word of God.”  Like Noah he was a preacher of righteousness, and like Paul could say, “I ceased not to warn every one night and day with tears.”

He had brought with him one of his elders, a man of like spirit, gentle, kind, tender, ever ready to obey the command to “weep with those that weep and rejoice with those that do rejoice,” a man silver-haired and growing feeble with age, yet so meek and lowly in heart, so earnest and childlike in his approaches to our Father, that he seemed on the very verge of heaven.

“Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.”  Often had these two been in that sick-room, comforting the aged saint as she neared “the valley of the shadow of death.”

To-day they had come again on the same Christlike errand, and for the last time; for all could see that she stood on Jordan’s very brink, its cold waters already creeping up about her feet.

Mr. Dinsmore, Mr. Travilla, and Elsie were present; also, a little withdrawn from the others, Aunt Chloe, Uncle Joe, and a few of the old house servants who were Christians.  “The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the Maker of them all.”

It was a sweetly solemn service, refreshing to the soul of each one there; most of all, perhaps, to that of her who would so soon be casting her crown at the Master’s feet.  “I am almost home,” she said with brightening countenance, her low, sweet voice breaking the solemn stillness of the room; “I am entering the valley, but without fear, for Jesus is with me.  I hear Him saying to me, ‘Fear not; I have redeemed thee; thou art mine.’”

“He is all your hope and trust, dear friend, is He not?” asked her pastor.

“All, all; His blood and righteousness are all my hope.  All my righteousnesses are as filthy rags; all my best services have need to be forgiven.  I am vile; but His blood cleanseth from all sin; and He has washed me in it and made me mete for the inheritance of the saints in light.”

“Dear sister,” said the old elder, taking her hand in a last farewell, “good-bye for a short season; ’twill not be long till we meet before the throne.  Do not fear to cross the river, for He will be with you, and will not let you sink.”