“I’d never like to forgit almost those last words Tempy spoke plain to me,” she said gently, like the comforter she truly was. “She looked up at me once or twice, that last afternoon after I come to set by her, and let Mis’ Owen go home; and I says, ‘Can I do anything to ease you, Tempy?’ and the tears come into my eyes so I couldn’t see what kind of a nod she give me. ‘No, Sarah Ann, you can’t, dear,’ says she; and then she got her breath again, and says she, looking at me real meanin’, ‘I’m only a-gettin’ sleepier and sleepier; that’s all there is,’ says she, and smiled up at me kind of wishful, and shut her eyes. I knew well enough all she meant. She’d been lookin’ out for a chance to tell me, and I don’ know ’s she ever said much afterwards.” Mrs. Crowe was not knitting; she had been listening too eagerly. “Yes, ’twill be a comfort to think of that sometimes,” she said, in acknowledgment. “I know that old Dr. Prince said once, in evenin’ meetin’, that he’d watched by many a dyin’ bed, as we well knew, and enough o’ his sick folks had been scared o’ dyin’ their whole lives through; but when they come to the last, he’d never seen one but was willin’, and most were glad, to go. ‘’Tis as natural as bein’ born or livin’ on,’ he said. I don’t know what had moved him to speak that night. You know he wa’n’t in the habit of it, and ’twas the monthly concert of prayer for foreign missions anyways,” said Sarah Ann; “but ’twas a great stay to the mind to listen to his words of experience.” “There never was a better man,” responded Mrs. Crowe, in a really cheerful tone. She had recovered from her feeling of nervous dread, the kitchen was so comfortable with lamplight and firelight; and just then the old clock began to tell the hour of twelve with leisurely whirring strokes. Sister Binson laid aside her work, and rose quickly and went to the cupboard. “We’d better take a little to eat,” she explained. “The night will go fast after this. I want to know if you went and made some o’ your nice cupcake, while you was home to-day?” she asked, in a pleased tone; and Mrs. Crowe acknowledged such a gratifying piece of thoughtfulness for this humble friend who denied herself all luxuries. Sarah Ann brewed a generous cup of tea, and the watchers drew their chairs up to the table presently, and quelled their hunger with good country appetites. Sister Binson put a spoon into a small, old-fashioned glass of preserved quince, and passed it to her friend. She was most familiar with the house, and played the part of hostess. “Spread some o’ this on your bread and butter,” she said to Mrs. Crowe. “Tempy wanted me to use some three or four times, but I never felt to. I know she’d like to have us comfortable now, and would urge us to make a good supper, poor dear.”