That was in February. April found her still lying there, just breathing, no more. The doctor gave a little hope, now; she might slip away any time, he said, but still it had lasted so long, there must be a reserve of strength; it was possible that she might come through it. One bright warm April day we had opened the windows, and the air came in sweet and fresh, and the robins were singing loud and merry in the budding apple-trees. Suddenly from the road outside came a child’s laugh; sweet and clear it rang out like a silver bell, and at the sound the ivory figure in the bed moved. A slight shiver rippled through it from head to foot. The eyes opened and looked at us, clear and calm. Dear Anne Peace knelt down beside the bed and took the slender transparent hands in hers, the tears running down her face. “Grandmother,” she said, “you are going to get well now—for the children! Spring has come, Grandmother dear, and the children need you!” She did get well. Slowly but surely life and strength returned; by June she was in the garden again with the children around her. Not the same, not the light-foot girl who frolicked and ran with the other children, but as you all remember her; serene, clear-eyed, cheerful, full of wisdom, grace, tenderness. Grandmother! who in this village does not remember her? To you young people she seemed an old woman, with her snow-white hair and ivory face, drawn into deep patient lines. She was not fifty when she died. During the twenty years she had yet to live, what a benediction her days were to old and young! People came to her with their joys and their sorrows. Strangers came, from outlying places, and brought their troubles to her; they had heard, no one knows how, that she had power and wisdom beyond that of other women. I met one of these strangers once. I was going in to see Grandmother, and I met a lady coming away; a handsome lady, richly dressed. She had been weeping, but her face was full of light. She looked at me. “Young woman,” she said, “do you live near here?” “Yes, madam,” I said; “close by, in that brown cottage.” “Yours is a high privilege,” she said, “to dwell so near to heaven.” She looked back to the house and kissed her hand to it; then beckoned, and a fine carriage came up and she drove away. I never knew who she was. I found Grandmother sitting quietly with her knitting, by the empty cradle. “What did you say to that lady, Grandmother?” I asked, though I knew next moment I should not have done it. “I told her an old lesson, my dear,” said Grandmother; “a lesson I learned long ago.” Once it was Saturday Nelly who came; Nelly, now grown a woman—if it could be called growing. “Grandmother,” she said, “look at me, and tell me what you see.” Grandmother looked into the pale drawn face with its strange eyes. “Nelly dear,” she said, “I see a face that I love, a face full of truth and goodness.”