countenance was cheerful and happy, and her intellect seemed unusually strong and clear; but to the eye of experience it was evident that this aged pilgrim, who for more than eighty years had trod the uneven and often toilsome journey of life, would soon be forever at rest.  The Widow Green remarked to my aunt one day in a mysterious whisper, “that she was sure grandma was drawing near the brink of the dark river, and the bright expression of her countenance was but a reflection of the happiness in store for her on the other side.”  Strong and self-reliant as was my aunt, the death of her mother was something of which she could not bear to speak, and the widow was one who so often talked of dreams and mysterious warnings, that my aunt usually paid little heed to her remarks in this respect.  But she could not reason away the change in her mother’s appearance.  Her mother had been so long spared to her that she had almost forgotten that it could not always be thus, and the All-wise Father, who sees the end from the beginning, willed it that the sudden death of her aged and pious mother should in a great measure be the means of preventing her from placing her affections too much on the perishable things of earth.  One evening, when I closed the Bible after spending the usual time in reading to grandma, she said:  “If you are not tired, Walter, read for me once more my favorite psalm.”  I read the psalm from the beginning in a clear distinct voice as I knew pleased her best, and when I had finished she said:  “You have often, dear Walter, during the two past years forsaken your books or your play to read to me, and you have been to me a great blessing, and you will be rewarded for it, for respect and veneration from youth toward age and helplessness is a noble virtue, and the youth who pays respect to the aged will be prospered in his ways.”  There was something in the look and manner of my aged relative which affected me strangely.  Her countenance looked unusually bright and happy, and her words had an earnestness of expression which I had never noticed before.  At the time I knew but little of the different ways in which death approaches, and was not aware that with the very aged the lamp of life often burns with renewed brightness just before it goes out forever.  After a short silence, grandma spoke again, saying, “Have you ever read Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, Walter?” I replied that I had, and she continued:  “You may remember that when an order was sent for one of the pilgrims to make ready to cross the ‘dark river’, the messenger gave him this token that he brought a true message, ’I have broken thy golden bowl and loosed thy silver cord.’  I think I have the same token, Walter.  I feel that the golden bowl is well-nigh shattered, and the silver cord of my life is loosening, and soon the last strand will be severed, and to me it is rather a matter of joy than of sorrow.  I know in whom I have believed, and all is peace.  Continue, my child, as you have begun in life, and