About the middle of May she was suddenly more completely prostrated, and on the 18th, for the first time, was unable to rise from her bed. There was a failure of the powers of Nature, without any acute disease, and, by gentle and painless steps, she drew near to the Land of Rest. At first she was disposed to be very quiet. "I am tired," she said, "I cannot talk much with you; but I am so comfortable." As she lay one morning in one of the sinking turns which she had every day or two, she opened her eyes with a smile, and said: "I love every body,"—closing them again, to relapse into the partially unconscious state.

"Don't let any one look sad," she would often say—"there should be none but cheerful faces in a sick-room"—and lovingly we tried to follow her wishes. Remembering her own words in her "Daily Counsellor"—

we strove to repress our tears, that no signs of our "selfish grief" should "chain the glad spirit" of the "ascending saint."

After this period of quiet came a season of restlessness—a longing to go "somewhere"—she could not tell where. Then we used to lift her from her bed, and placing her in a large rocking-chair, draw her gently through into an adjoining chamber, where she would sit by the open window, sometimes for two or three hours, looking out upon the grass and trees. Then, if she felt able, I used to read her letters to her, and tell her of the friends who had called to inquire for her. We used to make the room bright with pictures and flowers, and the change seemed always to refresh her. Once or twice each day she was thus taken from her sick-room, and she was able to sit up every day but the one immediately preceding her death.