When the real state of the wound was known, Aunt Hildy said: 

“I can get that ball out,” and she went to work energetically.  She cut cloth into strips and bound all about the place where the ball entered, and then she made a drawing “intment,” as she called it, and applied it daily, and in about four weeks, to our great delight, the ball came out.  Ben had the receipt for that wonderful “intment,” and he calls it “Aunt Hildy’s miracle.”

When the cold days of the fall came upon us, Aunt Hildy felt them greatly, and the morning of December tenth we awoke to find her gone; she had gone to sleep to wake in a better home.

It seemed as if we could not have it so, but when I remembered all she had told me of her hopes and fears, when I knew she had found Clara and was glad, I said we were selfish; let our hearts say “Amen.”

The town mourned Aunt Hildy, and again our church was filled to overflowing, and the sermon Mr. Davis preached was a just and beautiful tribute to our beloved friend, the true and faithful Hildah Patten.

The day after the burial, father said to us in a mournful tone: 

“Now I have a duty to perform, and when she talked to me about it, she said, ’Do it right off, Mr. Minot; don’t wait because you feel kinder bad to have me laid away.  It’s the best way to do what you’ve got to do, and get it over with.’

“So to-night we’ll read the papers, and then we will carry out her desires—­good old soul; I do wish she could have stayed longer.  I can hardly see how we’re going to live without her.”

The evening drew near, and Halbert, Mary and Ben, with little Hal, were seated in the “middle room,” while my father, with a trembling hand, turned the key in a small drawer of the old secretary, and took out a roll of papers and a box.  As he did so a thought struck him, and he turned suddenly, saying: 

“Why are not all here?  She told me to have Matthias and Peg and John come over.  I believe a few more sad partings would make me lose my memory.”

“I’ll go over for them,” said Ben; “it is early yet.”

“Yes, there is plenty of time,” said father.  “The sun sets early; the shortest day in the year will soon be with us,” and his eyes closed as if he were too tired to think, and he sat in silence until the sound of feet on the walk aroused him.

“Hope we hain’t come over to see more dyin’, Miss Em’ly.  ’Pears like its gettin’ pooty lonesome round yere,” and as our friends seated themselves, the old clock tolled the hour of seven.

Little Emily was asleep in Louis’ lap, and her cousin Hal curled himself up in one corner of the old sofa, as if he, too, felt the presence of the god of sleep.

“Now we are ready,” said my father, “and here is the paper written by Aunt Hildy which she bade me read to you all, and whose instructions we must obey to the letter, remembering how wise and good our kind friend has ever been.  It is written in the form of a letter,” and he read the following: