"By-and-by the physician came his round of the ward, stepping lightly, pausing at each bed, speaking softly to nurses and patients, and, without knowing it, making many a poor woman entertain kinder thoughts than she had ever meant to cherish of the wealthy and gentle. When he came to the end of the ward, his handsome face wore a pitiful air, and it was more by the movement of his lips than by the sound of his mouth that I knew what passed from him to the nurse. "'Well, sister, well,' he said, 'she sleeps quietly at last. Poor thing! I hope and believe the next life will be a fairer one for her than this has been.' "'Her sister has been written to,' observed the nurse. "'Quite right; and how is the other?' "'Oh, No. 22 is just the same--quite still, not moving at all, scarcely breathing, sir!' "'Um!--you must persevere. Possibly she'll pull through. Good-bye, sister.' "Late in the evening my sister Martha came. She was dressed in black, and led with her hand Rhoda, her eldest daughter. Poor Martha was very pale, and worn, and ill; when she approached the bed on which I lay, she seemed as if she would faint, and she trembled so painfully that my kind nurse led her behind the screen, so that she might recover herself out of my sight. After a few seconds--say two minutes--she stood again at the foot of my bed--calmer, but with tears in her eyes, and such a mournful loveliness in her sweet face as I had never seen before. "'I shouldn't have known her, nurse,' she said, gazing at me for a short space and then withdrawing her eyes--'she is so much altered.' "'Ah, dear!' answered the nurse, 'sickness alters people much--and death more.' "'I know it, nurse--I know it. And she looks very calm and blissful--her face is so full of rest--so full of rest!' "The nurse fetched some seats, and made Martha and Rhoda sit down side by side; and then the good woman stood by them, ready to afford them all comfort in her power. "'How did she bear her illness?' inquired Martha. "'Like an angel, dear,' answered the nurse. 'She had a sweet, grateful, loving temper. Whatever I did for her, even though my duty compelled me to give her pain, she was never fretful, but always concealed her anguish and said, "Thank you, dear, thank you, you are very good; God will reward you for all your goodness"; and as the end came nigher I often fancied that she had reasonable and happy moments, for she would fold her hands together, and say scraps of prayers which children are taught.'