All this time she was writing letters of cheer and strength, seldom intimating that all was not well with her. When finally obliged to keep her bed, she faded away rapidly, only living about two weeks. The last postal card to a correspondent was begun in bed, in a trembling hand, ending abruptly, "Too sick to write," and it was finished for her. Although at times she had a little of the consumptive's feeling that she might possibly rally, and even recover strength to work again, yet she perceived, as she said to her mother, that "the sands are running out fast," and made all her preparations for death in the quiet spirit of one merely going on a journey into a familiar country. One who watched with her one of the last nights spoke of a beautiful prayer she offered in the middle of the night. She was unable to turn herself in bed, and said to this friend with a smile, "This body wants turning so." Poor body! not much longer had she to endure its weaknesses. Her religion was too habitual, too much a part of her very soul, for many outward words or professions. It was her life, her self. Why should she talk about it? Mr. Thayer had always given her a list of the hymns and the full order of service, and the sermon to read. The Sunday before her death the sermon was returned, with the message that Miss Ellis was unable to read it, but had asked her mother to copy the text for her. A week before her death a friend, finding that in her excessive conscientiousness she was letting business details of the Women's Auxiliary Conference trouble her lest she should forget some item, went over all the books, wrote business letters, and settled accounts, at her dictation. Speaking of her work, she expressed faith that "God will raise up some one to do it." She said earnestly, "I have always wanted to do something for my denomination." It had evidently been a little of a struggle for her to leave the work she loved, just as it began to be so successful in many places, to die and be forgotten. In her modesty, she had no foregleam of the afterglow of praise and public testimony to her worth that was to follow the setting of her sun. Speaking once, near the end, with great pleasure, of Mrs. Paine's successful work in Newport and New York, she added, sadly, "They must increase, but I must decrease." But at last she was "ready not to do," able to give all up and repose in perfect peace upon the Father.