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 hailed every slight rally as a permanent improvement.

But it was not to be, and on August 30, 1877, she passed away. Her father's account of her last days is very touching: "It is only physical pain "which makes me cry," said she to the doctor who was attending her. " My spirit is in peace. I know in whom I have believed." "Never," writes the bereaved father, "was there a sweeter child, and she was my last. I and my wife in our old age are left alone in a house wide and desolate, where of old the voices of my three loved children echoed. But we are not forsaken. I think I can see dimly that there is a fitness, a preparation, required for the life beyond, which they had and I have not. One day I shall see it all clearly. Blessed be the Lord: His will be done."

When the first bitterness of his loss had passed, Toru Dutt's father found a sad consolation in examining the mass of papers which his gifted daughter had left behind her, and in preparing some of them for the, press.

A new edition of the Sheaf gleaned in French Fields was prefaced by a short biographical notice of the young poetess, and with its good paper, printing, and binding, formed a handsome volume, which was enhanced in value by the photograph of the two sisters, which forms its frontispiece. But to many