These were Miss Hardy's last words on parting with Rhoda. It was now the last of March, and Rhoda settled down for the summer, as she supposed, fulfilling her multifarious duties as assistant sick-nurse, milliner, reader, and factotum in general at the home. Miss Carpenter remarked one day, with a sigh, that it would be hard to fill Rhoda's place when she was gone. "I am sure nobody will miss the child more than I shall," said Miss Brown, echoing the sigh. "She is in and out a dozen times a day, and always has something pleasant to say. Only that it is so clearly to her advantage, I should be sorry she was going so far. It don't seem as if I should ever see her again." But Miss Brown was to go first, and on a longer journey than Rhoda's. She had been ailing for a day or two—not seriously, but so that Mrs. Lambert thought it best she should keep her room, especially as the weather was very trying. Rhoda had arranged her for the night, and left her feeling cheerful and comfortable; but when she went to call her in the morning, her good old friend was sleeping the quiet sleep which knows no waking in this world. "It is a blessed release to her, I am sure," said Mrs. Lambert, wiping her eyes. "There isn't one in the house that would be more missed, for all she was so quiet, and never made any disturbance. Rhoda's 'most heart-broken, and no wonder. She was like a daughter to the dear old lady." It was indeed a heavy blow to Rhoda—like losing Aunt Hannah over again. "She was so good to me. It does seem as though my friends were taken away from me as soon as I learn to love them," she said to Mrs. Worthington. "You have indeed had a sad experience of the changes of this life for one so young," replied her friend. "You must try to look all the more steadfastly at the things which are not seen, my child. It is the only comfort, and the only way to make affliction work out its good results. Taken in any other way, it only sours and hardens." Rhoda knew that these words were not mere phrases and matter-of-course consolations, coming as they did from one who had been stricken so sorely, and she tried to take them to heart; but nevertheless she missed her dear old friend every day more and more. "Well, they've given her a fine funeral," grumbled Granny Parsons, who had crawled down to see the ceremony—"rose-wood coffin with silver handles, and fine cashmere shroud, and all. You won't catch 'em giving me no such coffin as that. Any old pine box will be good enough for me." "It won't make no great difference, I expect, whether we have a rose-wood or pine," remarked Mrs. Josleyn. "So long as we get safe to the other side of Jordan, we may as well go in a pine boat as a rose-wood one. And I'm sure Miss Brown has got nicer white robes by this time than any cashmere, or satin either; for she was a good woman if ever there was one."