Had she been a Catholic, she would have worn the vesture of sackcloth, and slept upon the bed of iron, and even used the knotted scourge in expiation of her sins, but as the severe simplicity of her Protestant faith forbade such penances, she manifested, by the most rigid self-denial and strictest devotion, the sincerity of her penitence and the fervor of her faith.
Was Miss Thusa forgotten? Did she sleep in her lonely grave unhonored and unmourned?
In a corner of Helen’s own room, conspicuous in the mids of the elegant, modern furniture that adorns it, there stands an ancient brass-bound wheel. The brass shines with the lustre of burnished gold, and the dark wood-work has the polish of old mahogany. Nothing in Helen’s possession is so carefully preserved, so reverently guarded as that ancestral machine.
Nor is this the only memento of the aged spinster. In the grave-yard is a simple monument of gray marble, which gratitude and affection have erected to her memory. Instead of the willow, with weeping branches, the usual badge of grief—a wheel carved in bas relief perpetuates the remembrance of her life-long occupation. Below this is written the inscription—
“She laid her hands to the spindle, and her hands held the distaff.”
“She opened her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue was the law of kindness.”
THE END.
BOOKS SENT EVERYWHERE FREE OF POSTAGE
BOOKS FOR EVERYBODY AT GREATLY REDUCED RATES.