She stopped for a few minutes. The pain was coming on. One look she cast up at the brave blue of the sky, then she went on, "Derrice Mercer, my dear friend. Good-bye, good-bye. Keep clean your sweet soul. Train wisely all who may come to you. Do not forget me. We shall meet again. Do not lose heart. Trust your husband; he will advise." This time the pencil fell from her grasp, and an acute spasm of pain contracted her features. She pressed her hands to her throat, and gasped for breath. When it came, she seized the pencil and wrote, hurriedly, "I have offended some. I pray all to forgive me. In this last hour I think kindly, so kindly of all. Would that my poor death could bring happiness to all I know. Good-bye, dear townspeople. On the whole, we have lived happily together. I beg you, I pray you, I beseech you to meet me in a better world. Would that I could comfort some sore hearts before I go. "Chelda, once again,--do not grieve that I am alone. I thought to have you with me at the last, but it would have been hard for you. It is better so. Bury me beside the wanderer." Here she broke off. The pencil rolled away. She hurriedly thrust the paper in the bosom of her coat, and fell on the ground in a paroxysm of pain. The carpenter sitting by the pond with his back to her heard nothing. He had become absorbed in a newspaper that he had taken from his pocket. The pony uneasily touched the back of her head with his nose, and when she presently revealed her exhausted face he whinnied joyfully. Her strength was all gone. She was reclining on the moss, her hands full of violet leaves that she had grasped in her excess of pain. She drew herself to her old position against the tree, and straightened her clothing. Now she felt nothing but weariness, deadly weariness. She drew one hand caressingly over the ground. "Good-bye, good-bye," she murmured, "dear old Pine Tree State. _Dirigo_--motto of staunch hearts. Pony, kiss me--" and she tried to upraise a feeble hand. She could not. The pony rubbed his velvet nose over her forehead. "And this is death, no blackness of doubt and unbelief. All peace. The Puritans have triumphed!" Her voice rose suddenly. The carpenter heard it, and threw down his paper. He ran to her, then retraced his steps to the pond and filled his hat with water. He was too late. The old lady was dying. Her glazed eyes were fixed on the sky. She could not see him, but he caught her murmured words, "I believe in one God, maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ his Son--Dear Lord, open the gates of heaven and let a tired old child creep in." There was a wistful pleading note in her voice. The carpenter, leaning over her, tried in vain to revive her. She fell back, and a smile of unutterable joy lighted up her face. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE SON OF THE MORNING.