above, the “ministering angel of God’s love let her body remain with him as a pledge until his own spirit was called to join hers in the joint mansion of their eternal rest.  On the very day that her body was carried to its long home, his own unloosed, to its upward flight, the soul that had made it shine for half a century like a temple erected to the Divine Glory.  The years allotted to him on earth were even to a day.  Just sixty-six were measured off to him, and then “the wheel ceased to turn at the cistern,” and he died on his birthday.  An affecting coincidence also marked the departure of his beloved wife.  She left on the birthday of her eldest son, who had intended to make the anniversary the dating-day of domestic happiness, by choosing it for his marriage.

A few facts will suffice for the history of the closing scene.  About the middle of October, 1862, Mrs. Webb, whose health seemed failing, went to visit her brother, Henry Marshall, Esq., residing in Cambridge.  Here she suddenly became much worse, and the prospect of her recovery more and more doubtful.  Mr. Webb was with her immediately on the first unfavorable turn of her illness, together with other members of the family.  When he realised her danger, and the hope of her surviving broke down within him, his physical constitution succumbed under the impending blow, and two days before her death, he was prostrated by a nervous fever, from which he never rallied, but died on the 10th of November.  Although the great visitation was too heavy for his flesh and blood to bear, his spirit was strengthened to drink this last cup of earthly trial with beautiful serenity and submission.  It was strong enough to make his quivering lips to say, in distinct and audible utterance, and his closing eyes to pledge the truth and depth of the sentiment, “Thy will be done!” One who stood over him in these last moments says, that, when assured of his own danger, his countenance only seemed to take on a light of greater happiness.  He was conscious up to within a few minutes of his death, and, though unable to speak articulately, responded by expressions of his countenance to the words and looks of affection addressed to him by the dear ones surrounding his bed.  One of them read to him a favorite hymn, beginning with “Cling to the Comforter!” When she ceased, he signed to her to repeat it; and, while the words were still on her lips, the Comforter came at his call, and bore his waiting spirit away to the heavenly companionship for which it longed.  As it left the stilled temple of its earthly habitation, it shed upon the delicately-carved lines of its marble door and closed windows a sweet gleam of the morning twilight of its own happy immortality.