She was dead.  Clara, the purest of all, dead and how beautiful the transition!  What a picture for the sunset to look upon, as with the full tide of sympathy flooding our hearts, we stood around her where she lay!  John, in his strong dark beauty, with folded arms, and eyes like wells of sorrow; Matthias and Aunt Peg, with tears running over their dusky faces; good Mr. Davis, with his gray hairs bending over her as if to hear her tell the message to his loved one; Aunt Hildy standing like one who is only waiting for a little more to fill the cup, which is already near her lips; my father and mother with their tender sympathies expressed in every feature, with Jane and her husband near them like two statues; Hal and Mary beside Louis and me, wrapt like ourselves in the mantle of a strange and new experience.  How long we stood thus, I know not; the last sun-rays were dying as Aunt Hildy said:  “We must wait no longer; Jane and Aunt Peg, you’ll help me, the rest of you need’nt stay;” and so we left our beautiful dead, still in the hands of her friends.

The day of her burial was a perfect one—­calm in its beauty, the blue of its skies like the eyes of our darling.  The little pillow made by her own hands was of blue, covered with a fine web of wrought lace, and with edging that had also been her handiwork.  We dressed her as she desired,—­in a plain dress of pale blue,—­the violet blossoms she loved were in her hand, and it seemed to me as if I could never see her laid out of sight—­she was so beautiful in this last sleep; she looked not more than thirty; there were no gray hairs among the brown, and no lines of care or sorrow marked her sweet, pure face.

All things were as she desired, and when the sun burned low on the hills, we laid her under the willow, while the children sang “Sweet Rest.”

“Will there ever be another like her?” I said.

“Never,” said Aunt Hildy.

“No, never,” said the hearts of all.

My father missed her as much as if she had been his daughter, and I was glad of little Emily’s presence; it was a star in our night.  Louis was calm and strong, and spoke of her daily, and insisted on her plate at the table, saying: 

“I cannot call her dead.  Let us keep a place for her.”

It was a tender recognition which we respected.  He looked after her, it seemed to me, and almost saw her in her new home.  The months wore on, and our cares were still increasing.  News of battles lost and won came to us daily, and at last a letter telling of Lieutenant Minot having been wounded seriously.  It was impossible for any one to reach him at present, and we must wait until he got to Washington, whither he would be sent as soon as he was able.  Our fears were great, but at last a letter came from Washington, stating he would start for home on the twenty-first of October, and he desired Hal to meet him in New York.  Hal found that the wound was in the shoulder, and the ball was still in it.  Unsuccessful probing had caused him great suffering, and we should hardly have known him.