I was touched by all this.  How intense must have been the suffering that could so benumb the heart!—­that could prepare a mother to sit by the couch of her sick babes, and be willing to see them die!  I have witnessed many sad scenes in professional experience; but none so sad as this.

Steadily did the destroyer keep on with his work.  There were none of those flattering changes that sometimes cheat us into hopes of recovery, but a regular daily accumulation of the most unfavorable symptoms.  At the end of a week, I gave up all hope of saving the children, and made no more vain attempts to control a disease that had gone on from tie beginning, steadily breaking away the foundations of life.  To diminish the suffering of my little patients, and make their passage from earth to Heaven as easy as possible, was now my only care.

On the mother’s part, there was no sign of wavering.  Patiently, tenderly, faithfully did she minister to her little ones, night and day.  No lassitude or weariness appeared, though her face, which grew paler and thinner every day, told the story of exhausting nature.  She continued in the same state of mind I have described; never for an instant, as far as I could see, receding from a full consent to their removal.

One morning, in making my usually early call at the Allen House, I saw, what I was not unprepared to see, a dark death sign on the door.

“All over?” I said to the servant who admitted me.

“Yes, sir, all is over,” she replied.

“Both gone?”

“Yes, sir, both.”

Tears were in her eyes.

“When did they die?”

“About midnight.”

“At the same time?”

“Yes, sir.  Dear little souls!  They went together.”

“I will go up to see them,” said I.

And the girl showed me to the room in which they were laid.  The door was closed.  I opened it, and stepped in softly.  The room was darkened; but light came in through a small opening in the curtains at the top of the window, and fell in a narrow circle around the spot where the bodies, already in their snowy grave clothes, were laid.  In a chair beside them sat the mother.  She was alone with her dead.  I felt that I was an intruder upon a sorrow too deep for tears or words; but it was too late to recede.  So I moved forward and stood by the bedside, looking down upon the two white little faces, from which had passed every line of suffering.

Mrs. Dewey neither stirred nor spoke, nor in any way gave token that she was aware of my presence in the room.  I stood for over a minute looking upon the sweet images before me—­for in them, death had put on forms of beauty—­and still there was no movement on the part of Mrs. Dewey.  Then, feeling that she was with One who could speak to her heart by an inner way, better than I could speak through the natural ear, I quietly receded and left the apartment.  As my eyes rested on her a moment, in closing the door, I saw that her form remained as still as a statue.