The remains of Tabitha were carefully laid in a retired upper chamber. And now there was hurry and bustle in preparation for the final rites. Friends were sent for, neighbors were present, the funeral arrangements were discussed, the mourning procured, the hospitalities of the house provided for. All was excitement--the loss was not then perceived in all its greatness. But after the preparations were all made, after the bustle had subsided, and the watchers had come for the night, then it was that the friends of Tabitha began to realize what had befallen them. Now the house seemed so still and sepulchral, though in the heart of the city, and though its threshold was still trodden by friendly feet, it seemed so empty. The apartments--how deserted! especially the room where she struggled and surrendered in the last conflict. There are the clothes, the garments and unfinished coat, there was the vacant chair and idle work-basket. During her sickness they had not so much noticed these things, for they were ever hopeful that these things might be used or occupied again. But now it can not be, and they perceive the dreadful vacancy everywhere. Oh, how dark and cheerless the shadows came down over that home! No moon or stars have ever shown so dimly--no darkness ever seemed so utterly dark. The ticking of the clock resounds like bell-strokes all over the house. Such deep silence! No footsteps now on the stairs, or in the sick-chamber; no nurse to come and say, “she is not so well,” and come and ask for you. No, indeed, only the silent watchers move about with muffled step, and “you may sleep on now and take your rest,” if you can. Ah, poor bereaved hearts! It will be long ere the sweet rest you once knew will visit your couch. Slumber will bring again the scenes through which you have just passed, and you will start from it but to find them all too real. God pity the mourners after the body of the loved one lies unburied “in an upper chamber.”