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76 between her breathing grew longer and longer. She would fain have impressed one more kiss upon my brow, but her lips were powerless. I saw not when the last change passed, though I knelt beside her, my face buried in her pillow. I only remember that they said, "She is gone!" and that they carried me from the room.

The funeral was to me like a great, terrific dream. Every space and avenue of the dwelling was filled with people wishing to testify respect to her memory. The rich were there, with a proud sadness, for they said, "She belonged to us;" and the poor with tears, for they felt they had belonged to her. I was conscious of a great crowd, but saw nothing. I heard the voice of solemn prayer, but followed not its words. The long procession moved onward to the church. I was lifted to the carriage and taken out, and set in the right place among the mourners, by whose hands I knew not. Between my parents I at length found myself, as the sacred obsequies proceeded. The text of the funeral sermon was appropriate—"A good name is better than precious ointment." It sketched the virtues that appertain to a consistent Christian, and accorded just praise to her who lay lifeless beside us.

"To our city she is a loss, and to the Church of God which she honored. The sick and the sorrowful mourn a benefactor: for she stretched forth her hands to the poor and needy; she comforted the widow and