“Well, he is, and Mrs. Grover wants Louis to come over.  He’d better go back with me.  They expect he’ll die; he is troubled to breathe.”

I called Louis and he went over.  He came back to supper and told us he was going to stay with him all night.

“Mr. Davis says he cannot save his life, and they are to have Dr. Brown from the village.  The man is terribly frightened; he knows he must go.  He says he’s afraid he has been too mean to get into heaven, and he moans piteously.  His poor wife is nearly distracted.”

“Shall I go with you, Louis?” I said.

“You might go over but I hardly think I need you all night there.  He has been ill more than a week.  I should not be surprised if he left us before morning.”

“Small loss to us,” said Aunt Hildy, “but if the poor critter knows he’s been mean, perhaps he’ll see his way through better.  I’ll go over if it wont torment him.”

“You are just the one,” said Louis.

“Well, I hope I sha’nt set him to thinking about—­never mind what I say.  Let me get my herb bag and start along.”

We found the poor man no better, and wise Dr. Brown shook his head ominously.  He was a regular grave-yard doctor, and I thought it a pity to set up the deacon’s tomb-stone while yet he breathed.  His poor wife was taking on terribly (as Aunt Hildy expressed it).  When Deacon Grover saw Louis he tried to speak.  Louis went near and took his hand, and he whispered: 

“Peace, you bring me peace.”

“It is all right over there,” said Louis; “do not fear.”

“All right,” said the sufferer, and then, looking at his wife, he said, “Be her friend.”  A smile passed over his face, his eyes closed, and Deacon Grover was dead.

Mr. Goodman and Matthias came over to help Louis lay him out, and his funeral took place from the church the following Sunday.  Louis was a great help to Mrs. Grover and she needed all the aid he could give.  Her spirits were broken in her early days, and she followed the deacon in a little less than a year, her brain failing rapidly, her body having been weak for years.

Many changes had occurred during this year of my life, and when the beads upon my rosary of years numbered twenty-two, it seemed hardly a day since I had counted twenty-one.  How little time from one birthday to another, and in childhood how long the time between!

I was growing older, and the days challenged each other in their swiftness, but they were all pleasant to me, even though the church-bell often tolled the passing of souls, and the quiet of our hills was broken by the ringing of improvement’s hammer as it fell on the anvil of our possessions.  Long lines of streets passed through the meadow-lands, and where, in less level places, rocks and stones were in the path, the power of inventive genius was applied and the victory gained.  Some of our people felt it keenly.  To father it was an advantage, but to Aunt Hildy, the opposite.