"The home of many," I replied, "is undisturbed for years!"
"Yes, and how sweet a thing is love of home! It is not acquired, I am sure. It is a feeling that has its origin elsewhere. It is born with us; brought from another world, to carry us on in this with joy. It attaches to the humblest heart that ever throbbed."
"Dear Ellen!" I exclaimed, "how little has sorrow to do with your affliction!"
"And why, dear Caleb? Have you never found that the difficulties of the broad day melt away beneath the influences of the quiet lovely night? Have you never been perplexed in the bustle and tumult of the day, and has not truth revealed itself when all was dark and still? This is my night, and in sickness I have seen the eye of God upon me, and heard his words, as I have never seen and heard before?"
It was in this manner that she would talk, not more disturbed, nay, not so much, as when in happier times I never heard her speak of the troubles and anxieties of her poor villagers. No complaint—no mournful accents escaped her lips. If at times the soaring spirit was repressed, dejected, the living—the loved ones whom she must leave behind her had possession of her thoughts, and loaded them with pain. Who would wait upon her father? Who would attend to all his little wants? Who could understand his nature as she had learnt it—and who would live to comfort and to cheer his days? These questions she has asked herself, whilst her only answers have been her struggling tears.
The days were travelling fast; each one taking from the doomed girl—years of life. She dwindled and wasted; and became at length less than a shadow of her former self. Why linger on the narrative? Autumn arrived, and, with the general decay—she died. A few hours before her death she summoned me to her bedside, and acquainted me with her fast-approaching dissolution. "It is the day," she said, speaking with difficulty—"I am sure of it. I have watched that branch for many days—look—it is quite bare. Its last yellow leaf has fallen—I shall not survive it." I gazed upon her; her eye was brighter than ever. It sparkled again, and most beautiful she looked. But death was there—and her soul eager to give him all that he could claim!
"You are quite happy, dearest Ellen!" I exclaimed, weeping on her thin emaciated hand.
"Most happy, beloved. Do not grieve—be resigned—be joyful. I have a word to say. Nurse," she continued, calling to her attendant—"the drawing."
The nurse placed in her hand the sketch which she had taken of my favourite scene.
"Do you remember, love?" said she. "Keep it, for Ellen—you loved that spot—oh, so did I!--and you will love it still. There is another sketch, you will find it by and by—afterwards—when I am——It is in my desk. Keep that too, for Ellen, will you? It is the last drawing I have made."