And this colloquy is put an end to by the sudden appearance of Sister Slocum.  A rustling silk dress, of quiet color, and set off with three modest flounces; an India shawl, loosely thrown over her shoulders; a dainty little collar, of honiton, drawn neatly about her neck, and a bonnet of buff-colored silk, tastefully set off with tart-pie work without, and lined with virtuous white satin within, so saucily poised on her head, suggests the idea that she has an eye to fashion as well as the heathen world.  Her face, too, always so broad, bright, and benevolent in its changes-is chastely framed in a crape border, so nicely crimped, so nicely tucked under her benevolent chin at one end, and so nicely pinned under the virtuous white lining at the other.  Goodness itself radiates from those large, earnest blue eyes, those soft, white cheeks, that large forehead, with those dashes of silvery hair crossing it so smoothly and so exactly-that well-developed, but rather broad nose, and that mouth so expressive of gentleness.

Sister Slocum, it requires no very acute observer to discover, has got something more than the heathen world at heart, for all those soft, congenial features are shadowed with sadness.  Silently she takes her seat, sits abstracted for a few minutes-the house is thrown into a wondering mood-then looks wisely through her spectacles, and having folded her hands with an air of great resignation, shakes, and shakes, and shakes her head.  Her eyes sud-denly fill with tears, her thoughts wander, or seem to wander, she attempts to speak, her voice choaks, and the words hang upon her lips.  All is consternation and excitement.  Anxious faces gather round, and whispering voices inquire the cause.  The lean man in the spectacles having applied his hartshorn bottle, Sister Slocum, to the great joy of all present, is so far restored as to be able to announce the singular, but no less melancholy fact, that our dear guest, Sister Swiggs, has passed from this world to a better.  She retired full of sorrow, but came not in the morning.  And this so troubled Sister Scudder that there was no peace until she entered her room.  But she found the angel had been there before her, smoothed the pillow of the stranger, and left her to sleep in death.  On earth her work was well done, and in the arms of the angel, her pure spirit now beareth witness in heaven.  Sister Slocum’s emotions forbid her saying more.  She concludes, and buries her face in her cambric.  Then an outpouring of consoling words follow.  “He cometh like a thief in the night:  His works are full of mystery; truly, He chasteneth; He giveth and taketh away.”  Such are a few of the sentiments lisped, regrettingly, for the departed.

How vain are the hopes with which we build castles in the air; how strange the motives that impel us to ill-advised acts.  We leave untouched the things that call loudest for our energies, and treasure up our little that we may serve that which least concerns us.  In this instance it is seen how that which came of evil went in evil; how disapointment stepped in and blew the castle down at a breath.