How tenderly she imprinted a kiss upon my forehead, and fervently imploring God's blessing, glided from the room. Hers was a rugged path for the most part, such as one sees running up a mountain side, over roots, and stones, and brambles. From what secret spring did she derive her more than human strength? Where obtain the patience and fortitude that glorified her daily character? Ah! is there more than one fountain-head? Rising before day, while yet the occupants of the house were wrapped in sleep, she would retire to a little room and pour out her soul in fervent prayer. Sometimes the still air of the morning twilight has seemed to my quickened sensibilities to be pervaded and throbbing, as if her very soul, in its fervent pleadings, filled the space around me. Strangely thrilled, I have listened, wondering at the feeling that oppressed me; awe, sadness, self-dissatisfaction, desires for a better life crowding upon the mind, as the plaintive, tremulous voice could just be heard. When she had left communing with her divine Friend, and we met her at the morning meal, no one would fail to be struck with her aspect; serious, serene, trustful—peace, Christ's peace, impressed upon her brow. You would take knowledge of her that she had been with Jesus. "Ah!" said one, "when she has children of her own then you'll see a difference!" Well, Lizzie, with her dark, reflective eyes, came. Afterwards plump little Sarah, with her hazel orbs. And was it not a miracle that half-sisters and brothers grew so into unity as to need to be reminded that the full relation was not theirs! How often I have collected my scattered faculties, as if to master a new thought, when a visitor remarked, "These are your step-sisters, I suppose?" "Step-sisters!" I would reply. "Oh, yes, I had forgotten it!" quickly to forget it again. And what a love was hers! What delicate, far-reaching sympathies! what boundless charity! what intuitive perception of other's rights, and ready, persuasive championship of the unappreciated and the wronged. What genial, winning ways towards the young; how self-denyingly benevolent. And as age enfeebled her step and silvered her head, growing younger and younger in her tastes, responding to the innocent jest, delighting in innocent enjoyments, charming every one with her kind words and kind deeds. "Grandmother is coming!" Henry, the youngest, would exclaim, as he rushed into the house to be first with the good news. Sure enough. Feebly tripping along, with a mysterious package, too heavy for her strength, under her arm, she would approach, panting with exertion, her face radiant with affection. "O mother!" we would say, "you have taken too much pains to see us—the walk is too much for you!" "Don't say a word!" she would answer, deprecatingly; "I couldn't stay away any longer. I must know how you all do. And here," undoing her bundle, "are some little things I have brought for the children."