As, indeed, they were before the end of the month. She suffered no pain, but became so feeble that she could not take a step without support. She did not keep her bed; by the doctor's permission, and at her own wish, she sat at the window during the day in an easy chair which I obtained for her. There she could watch the advance of spring and breathe the balmy air; there she could see Ellen and me, whom she sent frequently into the open, saying it would do us harm to keep constantly in doors in such lovely weather. We never went far from her; the slightest motion of her hand, or her gentle voice calling "John" or "Ellen," brought us to her side, eager to do what she required. There was always a smile upon her face, a smile of peace, and content, and love, and I think her last days on earth were the happiest she had ever spent. She said as much: "I am quite, quite happy, dear children; do not grieve for me. In everything before me I see the goodness of God; I seem to see His face." When she raised her eyes to the bright clouds it was my firm belief that she beheld a spiritual vision of His glory, and when she lowered them to earth she saw a deeper meaning than we in the evidences of His wondrous power. She drew keen delight from the flowers and birds, from the air which floated from the sea, from the early budding of the trees. Not a murmur passed her lips, not a word of complaining. "I shall see all these things with a clearer eye presently," she said, "and bye and bye you will see them with me. Bear your trials patiently; do your work in the world, and let your mind dwell upon His love and goodness." She relied greatly upon me. It was I who carried her from room to room--Ellen not being strong enough for the task; it was I who sat by her side when she insisted upon Ellen taking a little rest during the day. Ellen needed this, for I knew, without being told, that she watched by her mother's bedside night after night without closing her eyes. Every evening I read aloud a chapter from the Bible; not in the stateliest church was truer devotion felt than in the room in which she lay dying. Once when we were alone, she said: "Do you love Ellen?" "With more than my heart, mother; with my soul." It was her wish that I should call her "mother." On one occasion it escaped me inadvertently, and she asked me always to address her so. "Ellen loves you," she said. "You are a good man. I leave her in your care." She spoke constantly of Ellen, and related stories of her childhood, drawing from love's memory instances of Ellen's sweetness and unselfish affection. "We have been very poor," she said, "but we had always one priceless blessing--love."