I was just rising from my early breakfast on the next morning when I received a hurried message from Ivy Cottage. The angel of Death had been there. Tenderly and lovingly had he taken the hand of Mrs. Montgomery, and led her through the gate that opens into the land of immortals. She received her daughter's kiss at eleven o'clock, held her for some moments, gazing into her face, and then said--“Good-night, my precious one! Good-night, and God bless you!” At seven in the morning she was found lying in bed with a smile on her face, but cold and lifeless as marble! There had been no strife with the heavenly messenger. CHAPTER XIX. No;--there had been no strife with the heavenly messenger. As a child falls asleep in its mother's arms, so fell Mrs. Montgomery asleep in the arms of an angel--tranquil, peaceful, happy. I say happy--for in lapsing away into that mortal sleep, of which our natural sleep is but an image, shall the world-weary who have in trial and suffering grown heavenly minded, sink into unconsciousness with less of tranquil delight than the babe pillowed against its mother's bosom? I think not. As I gazed upon her dead face, where the parting soul had left its sign of peace, I prayed that, when I passed from my labors, there might be as few stains of earth upon my garments. “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, Yea, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.” I found myself repeating these holy words, as I stood looking at the white, shrunken features of the departed. It was not until the next day that I saw Blanche. But Constance was with her immediately after the sad news jarred upon her sympathizing heart. “How did you leave her?” was my anxious query, on meeting my wife at home. “Calm,” was the brief answer. How much the word included! “Did you talk with her?” “Not a great deal; she did not seem inclined to talk, like some who seek relief through expression. I found her alone in the room next to the one in which the body of her mother was lying. She was sitting by a table, with one hand pressed over her eyes, as I entered. 'Oh, my friend! my dear friend!' she said, in a tone of grief, rising and coming a step or two to meet me. I drew my arms around her, and she laid her head against me and sobbed three or four times, while the tears ran down and dropped upon the floor. 'It is well with her!' I said. “'Oh, yes, my friend, it is well with her,' she answered, mournfully, 'well with her, but not with me. How shall I walk onward in life's difficult ways, without my mother's arm to lean upon? My steps already hesitate.' “'You have another arm to lean upon,' I ventured to suggest. “'Yes, a strong arm upon which I can lean in unfaltering trust. In this God has been good to me. But my wise, patient mother--how shall I live without her?' “'She is only removed from you as to bodily presence,' said I. 'Love conjoins your souls as intimately as ever.'