“Let us hold the services outside,” said the venerable evangelist. “Take the body out into the graveyard, and set it down in the middle of the graves of those to whom she was always so faithful, and I will preach where she used to preach to the birds and to the dead, from the meeting-house steps.” They bore out the body, and set it down under the great cool trees, where the crisp leaves were dropping upon the graves. They opened the lid on the calm, sweet, face, where the people on the high ground could see it, and the tears of those in whose homes she had been a blessing to the sick and a comfort to the dying, fell like rain. Tender and eloquent were the words spoken by the white-haired Elder, over that still, dead, untroubled face. The old trustees of the church were stirred as they had never been before. Soon after the close of the sermon, one of them mounted the steps, with a word to say to the people. “She has opened these doors with her dead hand,” he said. “May they never be closed again by the living. The trustees have just had a meeting, and have agreed once more to open the house. This is a fitting ending to this day of mourning, and of Thanksgiving. Now, let the old bell ring.” They closed the lid of the coffin forever, and bore the body to the open earth. The bell began to ring. The voice of the Elder rose in a sublime thanksgiving Psalm, as the bell pealed on, and the grave closed over all that was mortal of Hannah, who sang _countre_. The people left the grounds, one by one. The struggle was ended. The work of this lone, feeble woman was done. She rested at last on the day of the Great Thanksgiving, of which she had prophesied. And she had been there, and the _countre_ tone of her life had never made sweeter harmony. She lies in a grave long neglected; but should one kneel down beside the stone that is sinking slowly into the earth, and peel away the moss, and follow the light carving on the blue slate under some quaint pictures of cherubs, one might read,— HANNAH SEMPLE, WHO SANG COUNTRE IN THE CHOIR, ÆTAT. 90. The old generation has been gathered to their fathers, but the new generation still feels the beneficent influence of that Great Thanksgiving. CHAPTER XI. WHAT MR. MARLOWE FOUND TO TAKE HOME IN THE STATE BUILDINGS. Stories of Puget Sound Indians, Selected old Story of “The Devil and Tom Walker,” A Folk-Lore Story of Old Rhode Island Days. IN THE FISHERIES BUILDING. “We are now walking in the sea,” said Mr. Marlowe, as the trio moved along the Fisheries Building; “the inhabitants of the waters are around us on every hand.”