"Now, is it not strange that you should have been an object of such especial interest to both of us? It seems as though you were a centre around which we were once more re-united. I have written him a long letter, which I wish you to deliver upon your arrival in Boston." Here she drew from the portfolio that was lying on the bed beside her, a sealed letter, directed to Justinian Trueman, Boston, Mass.
I was weeping violently when I took it from her.
She lingered thus for several weeks, and on a calm Sabbath morning, as I was reading to her from the Bible, she said to me—
"Ann, I am sleepy; my eyelids are closing; turn me over."
As I attempted to do it she pressed my hand tightly, straightened her body out, and the last struggle was over! I was alone with her. Laying her gently upon the pillow, I for the first time in my life pressed my lips to that cold, marble brow. I felt that she, holy saint, would not object to it, were she able to speak. I then called Biddy in to assist me. She was loud in her lamentation.
"She bade us not weep for her, Biddy. She is happier now;" but, though I spoke this in a composed tone, my heart was all astir with emotion.
Soon her brother came in, bringing with him a minister. He received the mournful intelligence with subdued grief.
We robed her for Death's bridal, e'en as she had requested, in white silk, flannel, and white gloves. Her coffin was plain mahogony, with a plate upon the top, upon which were engraved her name, age, and birth-place.
A funeral sermon was preached, by a minister who had been a strong personal friend. In a retired portion of the public burial-ground we made her last bed. A simple tombstone, as she directed, was placed over the grave, her name, age, &c., inscribed thereon.
Bridget and I slept in the same house that night. We could not be persuaded to leave it, and there, in Miss Nancy's dear, familiar room, we held, as usual, family devotion. I almost fancied that she stood in the midst, and was gazing well-pleased upon us.