“You like my cold hands,” said I, as I once more pressed them on his throbbing temples; “but perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be better; let me get you some.” He said something which I could not catch; his voice sounded strangely weak and broken, and I was obliged to ask him to repeat it. “No! oh no! I said your hands were better than any ice.” “They put you in mind of that sister, is that it? Well, shut your eyes now, and try to fancy, just for a little while, that they are really hers, and that she is standing in my place, where I know she would so long to be.” “That sister,” he said, quietly and gently, “whom I shall never see on this earth again.” This was the first time that he had so spoken; always before he had alluded to being better--to getting home--to writing himself to her; but now it seemed he felt and realized his state. These were the last words I ever heard poor Darlington speak, for I never saw him again. My week at the hospital was over; I was obliged to leave home for a short time, and when I returned he was at peace, and calmly laid to rest. “Out of the darkness, into the light: No more sickness, no more sighing; No more suffering, self-denying; No more weakness, no more pain; Never a weary soul again; No more clouds, and no more night;-- Out of the darkness into the light.” Although I was not present, I had the most touching account of his last hours from one who, in truth, acted a sister’s part,--watched by him, comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and received his latest breath. With her own hands she cut off a lock of that fair hair for the poor sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away home. She told me, in speaking of the last days of his life, that after I had left, and as death drew near, all that restlessness and irritability passed away, and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child; talked to her quietly--sent messages to his home--gave particular directions as to his funeral--saying that it would satisfy them all at home, to know everything had been carefully attended to, and that they would see that it was all paid for. Every wish was carried out; his body was wrapped in the Flag; our own grand Service for the Dead said over him; his faithful nurse, “Uncle Richards,” following him to his grave,--in one of the lots generously given by one of the cemeteries in the neighborhood of the city. It was a great comfort to know that he looked at Death without fear; his mind had evidently been dwelling much and deeply upon the subject, during many of those long hours when we had supposed him to be in a stupor. He expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits of his dear Lord and Saviour, and rested with a quiet confidence upon His mercy. He passed away calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that he sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return.