Page:Letters of Life.djvu/424

412 And now it seemed as if her work on earth was done, and with calmness and steadfast trust she awaited the will of the Lord. Patient and loving, she thought more of the comfort of those who watched over her than of her own. There was still no pain, no distress, except at times a shortness of breath and a weariness that nothing could relieve. "I am so tired, so tired," she would say; the soul, weary of its burden of the flesh, longed for the "rest that remaineth for the people of God."

It was at the midnight before the morning of Saturday, June 10th, that we knew by a change in her breathing that the angels were waiting for her. She still aroused once or twice, to take the few drops of wine that formed her only nourishment, adding her unfailing "Thank you." Hand in hand we went down with her into the valley of death's shadow. The birds sang gloriously as the day dawned, as if they knew it was for her their parting strain. The sun of the beautiful summer morning streamed in at the windows; the house was filled with the odor of the vine-blossoms, as fifteen years before it had been, when her "Faded Hope" departed; the holy words of prayer and the comforting promises of God's blessed Word arose from beloved lips; twice the pulse ceased, and the breath stopped, and we thought that she had entered into rest. But God had ordained that there must yet be a struggle for the weary body to pass through—a final conflict ere the pure spirit could be set free. Sudden and sharp it was; the suffering of the whole sickness seemed to have been compressed into its last hour. But then it ceased forever—no more forever the weary moaning, "so tired, so tired"—no more forever of pain or distress, but perfect unending rest and peace, "for the former things have passed away."