"First, buy for me a cedar coffin, since it will please you to remember that this wood lasts longer in the ground than any other. Do not have any unnecessary trimmings for it, and I would like to wear in this last resting-place the blue dress I prize the most. You will find in my large trunk the little pillow I have made for my head; just let me lie there a little on one side, and put a few of Emily's sweet violets in my hand that I may be pleasant to look upon. Leave no rings upon my fingers; these I wear, my Louis Robert gave me, and you must keep them for his grandchild," and as she said this, she unfastened the shining chain that she had worn hidden so many years, and putting it around our little Emily's neck, said: "Let her always wear the chain and the locket," and while the baby's eyes reflected the gleam of the gold that dazzled them, we were all weeping. "Do not feel so," said Clara; "it is beautiful to go; let me tell you the rest. All these people whom I have known will desire to look at my face, and for their sakes let me be carried into the old church which has become to me so dear. I have asked Mr. Davis to preach from the text, 'I am the resurrection and the life.'
"Be sure that the children from the Home all go, and I would like you with them to occupy the front pews. I have a fancy," and she smiled, "that if you sit there it will help me to come near to my deserted tenement. I know I shall be with you there, and I hope you will never call me dead. My house of clay is nearly dead now, and the more strength it loses the stronger my spirit feels. Mr. Minot said, long since, that I might own part of his lot in the churchyard, and I would like to be buried under the willow there. I like that corner best. Do not ever tell little Emily I am there; just say I'm gone away to rest and to be well and strong, and when she is older tell her the frame that held the picture is beneath the grasses, and that my freed soul loves her and watches her, for it will be true. If you feel, Louis, my dear boy, like bringing your father's remains to rest beside me, you can do so. It will not trouble either of us, for it matters little; we are to be together. This is all, except that, if it be practicable, I should like the burial to take place at the hour of sunset; this seems the most fitting time. While the grave is yet open, please let the children sing together, 'Sweet Rest;' I always like to hear them sing this. To-morrow evening I have something to say to the friends who really seem to belong to me,—Hal and Mary, Mr. Davis, Matthias, Aunt Peg and John, Jane and her husband. Please let them come at six o'clock."
She closed her eyes wearily, and looked so white and beautiful, her small hands folded, and the fleecy shawl about her falling from her shoulders, and it seemed as if the material of life, like this delicate garment, was also falling from her. Desolation spread its map before me. I could think of nothing but an empty room and heart, and with Louis' arms about me, I sobbed bitterly. Then I thought how selfish I was, and said: "Louis, take her in your arms; she is so tired, poor little mother." The blue eyes looked at me with such a tender light, and she said, "Yes, I am tired." Louis gathered her in his arms and seated himself in a rocker. Aunt Hildy went for some cordial. Mother and father sat quietly with bitter tears falling slowly, and with little Emily in my arms, I crossed the room to occupy a seat where my tears would not trouble her. It was sadly beautiful.
She drew strength from Louis, and was borne into her room feeling, she said, very comfortable. I wanted to stay with her through the night, but she said:
"No, the baby needs you; so does Louis; I know how he feels; my night will be peaceful and my rest sweet; Aunt Hildy will rest beside me."
"Yes, yes, I'll stay, and we shall both rest well," said Aunt Hildy.
In the morning she was weak, but we dressed her, and after eating a little she felt better, and in the afternoon seemed very comfortable and happy. We had our supper at a little after five o'clock, and at six o'clock, as she had wished, all were in her room.
"Louis, roll my chair into the centre of the room, and let me face the west, for I love to see day's glory die. Now come, good friends all, and sit near me, where I can see your faces. I want to tell you that I am going out of your sight, and I have left to each of you what seemed good and right to me. I hope, yes, I know you will remember that I love you all so much I would never be forgotten. You are grown so dear to me that I shall not forget to look upon you; and please remember that I am not dead, but shall be to you a living, active friend, who sees and knows your needs, and to whose heart may be entrusted some dear mission for your greatest good. Mr. and Mrs. Turner," and she held her hands to Jane and her husband, "be true and faithful to each other. Leave no work undone, love the children, and ask help from the hills, whence it shall ever come. You will, I am sure;" and her eyes turned inquiringly upon them.
"Oh, Mis' De-Mond," said Jane, "I will, oh, you blessed angel woman!"
"I will, so help me God!" said Mr. Turner, and they took their seats, while Clara, with a motion that said please come, called: