“I did not press the point, for I knew that in all sorrow the heart is its own best comforter, and gathers for itself themes of consolation that even the nearest friend would fail to suggest.  We went in together to look at the frail tabernacle from which the pure spirit of her mother had departed forever!  How sweetly the smile left upon the lips in the last kiss of parting, lingered there still, fixed in human marble with more than a sculptor’s art!  There was no passionate weeping, as we stood by the lifeless clay.  Very calm and silent she was; but oh, what a look of intense love went out from her sad eyes!  Not despairing but hopeful love.  The curtain of death hid from her no land of shadows and mystery; but a world of spiritual realities.  Her mother had not gone shrinking and trembling into regions of darkness and doubt; but in the blessed assurance of a peaceful reception in the house of her friends.

“How a true faith,” said I, strongly impressed by the images which were presented to my mind, “strips from death its old terrors!  When the Apostle exclaimed, ’Oh, grave, where is thy victory? oh, death, where is thy sting?’ his mind looked deeper into the mystery of dying, and saw farther into the world beyond, than do our modern Christians, who frighten us with images of terror.  ’I will lay me down in peace and sleep,’ when the time of my departure comes, should be the heart-language of every one who takes upon himself the name of Him who said, ’In my Father’s house are many mansions.  I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am, ye may be also.’”

“Since I knew Mrs. Montgomery, and felt the sphere of her quality,” said Constance, “my perceptions of life and duty here, and their connection with life and happiness hereafter, have been elevated to a higher region.  I see no longer as in a glass darkly, but in the light of reason, made clear by the more interior light of Revelation.”

“And the same is true with me,” I replied.  “We may well say that it was good to have known her.  She was so true, so just, so unconscious of self, that truth, justice, and unselfishness were always lovelier in your eyes for having seen them illustrated in her person.  And there was no pious cant about her.  No parade of her unworthiness; no solemn aspects, nor obtrusive writings of bitter things against herself.  But always an effort to repress what was evil in her nature; and a state of quiet, religious trust, which said, ’I know in whom I have believed.’”

“Ah,” said Constance, “if there was only more of such religion in the world!”

“It would be a happier world than it is,” I answered.

“By the impress of a life like hers, what lasting good is done!” said my wife.  “Such are the salt of the earth.  Cities set upon hills.  Lights in candlesticks.  They live not in vain!’”

I did not see Blanche until the day of burial.  Her beautiful face was calm, but very pale.  It bore strongly the impress of sorrow, but not of that hopeless sorrow which we so often see on these mournful occasions.  It was very plain that her thoughts were not lingering around the shrouded and coffined form of what was once her mother’s body, but were following her into the world beyond our mortal vision, as we follow a dear friend who has gone from us on a long journey.