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It was a fortunate thing for Gertrude that Thanksgiving week
was approaching, as that was a vacation time at Mr. W.'s school,
and she would thus be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied
cares. She considered herself favored, too, in obtaining the services
of Jane, who willingly consented to come and help Miss
Gertrude. She did not, she said, exactly like the idea of living
out, but could n't refuse a young lady who had been so good to
them in times past. Gertrude had feared that, with nan Grant
sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give up her
eldest daughter; but Mary, a second girl, having returned home
unexpectedly, one of them could be very conveniently spared.
Under Gertrude's tuition, Jane, who was neat and capable, was
able, after a few days, to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of nearly all her
household duties, and so far provide for many of her personal
wants as to leave Gertrude at liberty to pay frequent visits to the
sick room of Nan, whose fever, having reached its height, rendered
her claim for aid at present the most imperative.

We need hardly say that, in Gertrude's still vivid recollection
of her former sufferings under the rule of Nan, there remained
nothing of bitterness or a spirit of revenge. If she remembered
the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor; if she
meditated upon the course she should herself pursue towards her
once hated tyrant, it was only to revolve in her mind how she could
best serve and comfort her.

Therefore, night after night found her watching by the bed-side
of the sick woman, who, though still delirious, had entirely lost

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the fear and dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence.
Nan talked much of little Gerty,—sometimes in a way that led
Gertrude to believe herself recognized, but more frequently as if
the child were supposed to be absent; and it was not until a long
time after that Gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition,
which was, that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she
much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by
Nan herself, the fevered, diseased, and conscience-stricken sufferer
believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was
only the continued assurances of good-will on Gertrude's part, and
her unwearied efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led
Nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in
health and safety, and was ignorant of the wrongs and unkindness
she had endured.

One night—it was the last of Nan's life—Gertrude, who had
scarcely left her during the previous day, and was still maintaining
her watch, heard her own name mingled with those of others
in a few rapid sentences. She approached the bed and listened
intently, for she was always in hopes, during these partly incoherent
ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early
life. Her name was not repeated, however, and for some time
the muttering of Nan's voice was indistinet. Then, suddently starting
up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted
aloud, “Stephie! Stephie! give me back the watch, and tell me
what you did with the rings!—They will ask—those folks!—and
what shall I tell them?” Then, after a pause, during which her
eyes were fixed steadily upon the wall, she said, in a more feeble
but equally earnest voice, “No, no, Stephie, I never 'll tell.—
I never, never will!” The moment the words had left her lips,
she started, turned, saw Gertrude standing by the bed-side, and,
with a frightened look, shrieked, rather than asked, “Did you
hear? Did you hear?—You did,” continued she, “and you'll
tell! O, if you do!” She was here preparing to spring from
the bed, but, overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow.
Summoning both Mr. and Mrs. Miller, who, half expecting to be
called up during the night, had lain down in the next room, the
agitated Gertrude, believing that her own presence was too

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exciting, left the now dying woman to their care, and sought in another
part of the house to calm her disturbed mind and disordered
nerves. Learning, about an hour afterwards, from Mrs. Miller,
that Nan had become comparatively calm, but was utterly prostrated
in strength, and seemed near her end, Gertrude thought it
best not to enter the room again; and, sitting down by the kitchenstove,
pondered in her mind the strange scene she had witnessed.
Day was just dawning when Mrs. Miller came to tell her that
Nan had breathed her last.

Gerty's work of mercy, forgiveness and Christian love, being
thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her wasted strength,
and fortify herself, as she best might, for the labor and suffering
yet in store for her.

And it was no ordinary strength and fortitude that she needed
to sustain her through a period such as persons in this world are
often called upon to meet, when scenes of suffering, sickness and
death, follow each other in such quick succession, that, ere one
shock can be recovered from, and composure of mind restored,
another blow comes to add its force to the already overwhelming
torrent. In less than three weeks from the time of Nan Grant's
death, Paul Cooper was smitten by the destroyer's hand, and,
after a brief illness, he, too, was laid to his last rest; and though
the deepest feelings of Gertrude's heart were not in either case
fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physical
endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self-imposed
duties occasioned by each event, and that, too, at a
time when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new
and far more intense grief. Emily's absence was also a sore trial
to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and
counsel, and, in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and
submission from one who was herself a living exemplification of
both virtues. Only one letter had been received from the travellers,
and that, written by Mrs. Ellis, contained little that was
satisfactory. It was written from Havana, where they were
boarding in a house kept by an American lady, and crowded with
visitors from Boston, New York, and other northern cities.

“It an't so very pleasant, after all, Gertrude,” wrote Mrs.

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Ellis, “and I only wish we were safe home again; and not on my
own account, either, so much as Emily's. She feels kind of strange
here; and no wonder, for it's a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a
place. The windows have no glass about them, but are grated
just like a prison; and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a
fireplace, though sometimes the mornings are quite cold. There's
a widder here, with a brother and some nieces. The widder is a
flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think, if you'll believe
it, is either setting her cap for Mr. Graham, or means to
make an old fool of him. She is one of your loud-talking women,
that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead; and Mr.
Graham is just silly enough to follow after her party, and go to
all sorts of rides and excursions;—it's so ridiculous,—and he
over sixty-five years old! Emily and I have pretty much done
going into the parlor, for these gay folks don't take any sort of
notice of us. Emily does n't say a word, or complain a bit, but
I know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in
Boston; and so should I, if it was n't for that horrid steamboat.
I liked to have died with sea-sickness, Gertrude, coming out; and
I dread going home so, that I don't know what to do.”

Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily; but, as Miss Graham was
dependent upon Mrs. Ellis' eye-sight, and the letters must, therefore,
be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost
thoughts and feelings as she was wont to do in conversation
with her sympathizing and indulgent friend.

Every India mail brought news from William Sullivan, who,
prosperous in business, and rendered happy, even in his exile, by
the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment
of the fruits of his exertions, wrote always in his accustomed
strain of cheerfulness.

One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper's death,
found Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous
postmarks upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence it
came. It had that day been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she
lay stretched upon her couch, had been listening for the third
time to the reading of its contents. The bright hopes expressed
by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious,

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as he yet was, of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him,
formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay
with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of
sadness; while Gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which
Willie dilated upon the “joy of once more clasping in his arms
the dear little mother whom he so longed to see again,” and then
turned her gaze upon the wasted form and faded cheek of that
mother, felt an indescribable chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy's
first fears were all confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated
by the anxiety and agitation which attended her father's
sickness and death, Mrs. Sullivan was rapidly passing away.

Whether she were herself aware that this was the case, Gertrude
had not yet been able to determine. She had never spoken
upon the subject, or intimated in any manner a conviction of her
approaching end; and Gertrude, as she surveyed her placid
countenance, was almost inclined to believe that she was yet
deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery.

All doubt on this point was soon removed; for, after remaining
a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs.
Sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon her young attendant,
and said, in a calm, distinct voice,

“Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again!”

Gertrude made no reply.

“I wish to write and tell him so myself,” she continued;
“or, rather, if you will write for me, as you have done so many
times already, I should like to tell you what to say; and I feel
that no time is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long
have strength enough left to do it. It will devolve upon you, my
child, to let him know when all is over; but you have had too
many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have
me prepare him to hear bad news. Will you commence a letter
to-day?”

“Certainly, auntie, if you think it best.”

“I do, Gerty. What you wrote by the last mail was chiefly
concerning grandpa's sickness and death; and there was nothing
mentioned which would be likely to alarm him on my account,
was there?”

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“Nothing at all.”

“Then it is quite time he should be forewarned, poor boy! I
do not need Dr. Jeremy to tell me that I am dying.”

“Did he tell you so?” asked Gertrude, as she went to her
desk, and began to arrange her writing-materials.

“No, Gerty! he was too prudent for that; but I told him,
and he did not contradict me. You have known it some time,
have you not?” inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of Gertrude,
who had returned to the couch, and, seated upon the edge
of it, was bending over the invalid, and smoothing the hair from
her forehead.

“Some weeks,” replied Gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a
kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Why should I, dear auntie?” said Gertrude, her voice trembling
with emotion. “I knew the Lord could never call you at a
time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning.”

“Feebly, it burns feebly!” said the humble Christian.

“Whose, then, is bright,” responded Gertrude, “if yours be
dim? Have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety
and patience? Unless it be Emily, auntie, I know of no one who
seems so fit for heaven.”

“O, no, Gerty! I am a sinful creature, full of weakness;
much as I long to meet my Saviour, my earthly heart pines with
the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams
of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one blessing
I most craved on earth has been denied me.”

“O, auntie!” exclaimed Gertrude, “we are all human! Until
the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of
Willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour? It cannot
be a sin,—that which is so natural!”

“I do not know, Gerty; perhaps it is not; and, if it be, I
trust, before I go hence, I shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect
submission, that will atone for the occasional murmuring of a
mother's heart! Read to me, my dear, some holy words of comfort;
you always seem to open the good book at the passage I
most need: It is sinful, indeed, in me, Gertrude, to indulge the

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least repining, blessed as I am in the love and care of one who
is dear to me as a daughter!”

Gertrude took her Bible, and, opening it at the Gospel of St.
Mark, her eye fell at once upon the account of our Saviour's
agony in the garden of Gethsemane. She rightly believed that
nothing could be more appropriate to Mrs. Sullivan's state of
mind than the touching description of the struggle of our Lord's
humanity; nothing more likely to soothe her spirit, and reconcile
her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature, than the
evident contest of the human with the divine so thrillingly narrated
by the disciple; and that nothing could be more inspiring
than the example of that holy Son of God, who ever to His thricerepeated
prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him,
added the pious ejaculation, “Thy will, not mine, be done.”
Without hesitation, therefore, she read what first met her glance,
and had the satisfaction of seeing that the words were not without
effect; for, when she had finished, she observed that as Mrs. Sullivan
lay still and calm upon her couch, her lips seemed to be
repeating the Saviour's prayer. Not wishing to disturb her meditations,
Gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to
Willie, but sat in perfect silence, and about half an hour afterward
Mrs. Sullivan fell asleep. It was a gentle, quiet slumber,
and Gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful, happy
expression of her features. Darkness had come on before she
awoke, and so shrouded the room that Gertrude, who still sat
there, was invisible in the gloom. She started, on hearing her
name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached the couch.

“O, Gertrude!” said Mrs. Sullivan, “I have had such a
beautiful dream! Sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to
you; it could not have been more vivid, if it had all been reality.
I thought I was sailing rapidly through the air, and, for some
time, I seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright
stars. The motion was so gentle that I did not grow weary,
though in my journey I travelled over land and sea. At last I
saw beneath me a beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments,
and throngs of gay people moving in every direction. As
I drew nearer, I could distinguish the faces of these numerous

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men and women, and among them, in a crowded street, there was
one who looked like Willie. I followed him, and soon felt sure
it was he. He looked older than when we saw him last, and much
as I have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given
in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appearance.
I followed him through several streets, and at last he
turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of
the city. I went in also. We passed through large halls and
beautifully-furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-salon,
in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, glasses,
and the remains of a rich dessert, such as I never saw before.
There was a group of young men round the table, all well dressed,
and some of them fine-looking, so that at first I was quite charmed
with their appearance. I seemed, however, to have a strange
power of looking into their hearts, and detecting all the evil there
was there. One had a very bright, intelligent face, and might
have been thought a man of talent.—and so he was; but I could
see better than people usually can, and I perceived, by a sort of
instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means
of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant
as to be ensnared; and, in a corner of his pocket, I knew he had
a pair of loaded dice.

“Another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm
of the company; but I could detect marks of intoxication, and
felt a certainty that in less than an hour he would cease to be the
master of his own actions.

“A third was making a vain attempt to look happy; but his
very soul was bared to my searching gaze, and I was aware of
the fact that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table all
his own and a part of his employer's money, and was tortured
with anxiety lest he might not this evening be fortunate enough
to win it back.

“There were many others present, and all, more or less sunk in
dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. Their
faces, however, looked animated and gay, and, as Willie glanced
from one to another, he seemed pleased and attracted.

“One of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged

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him to take it. He did so, and the young man at his right filled
a glass with bright wine and handed it to him. He hesitated,
then took it and raised it to his lips. Just then I touched him on
the shoulder. He turned, saw me, and instantly the glass fell
from his hand and was broken into a thousand pieces. I beckoned,
and he immediately rose and followed me. The gay circle
he had left called loudly upon him to return; one of them even
laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him; but he would
not listen or stay—he shook off the hand that would have held
him, and we went on. Before we had got outside the building,
the man whom I had first noticed, and whom I knew to be the
most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door,
which he had reached by some other direction, and, approaching
Willie, whispered in his ear. Willie faltered, turned, and would
perhaps have gone back; but I placed myself in front of him, held
up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. He hesitated no
longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door,
and was down the long flight of steps before I could overtake him.
I seemed, however, to move with great rapidity, and soon found
myself taking the lead, and guiding my son through the intricate,
crowded streets of the city. Many were the adventures we encountered,
many the snares we found laid for the unwary in every
direction. More than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless
boy by my side from some pitfall or danger, into which, without
me, he would have surely fallen. Occasionally I lost sight of
him, and was obliged to turn back; now he had been separated
from me by the crowd, and consequently missed his way, and
now he had purposely lingered to witness or join in the amusements
of the gay populace. Each time, however, he listened to
my warning voice, and we went on in safety.

“At last, however, in passing through a brilliantly-lighted street,—
for it was now evening,—I suddenly observed that he was
absent from my side. I went backwards and forwards, but he was
nowhere to be seen. For an hour I hunted the streets, and called
him by name; but there was no answer. I then unfolded my
wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the

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whole, hoping that in that one glance I might, as I had at first
done, detect my boy.

“I was not disappointed. In a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit,
and filled with gayety and fashion, I beheld Willie. A brilliant
young creature was leaning on his arm, and I saw into her heart,
and knew that she was not blind to his beauty or insensible to his
attractions. But, O! I trembled for him now! She was lovely
and rich, and it was evident to me, from the elegance of her dress
and the attention she attracted, that she was also fashionable and
admired. I saw into her soul, however, and she was vain, proud,
cold-hearted and worldly; and, if she loved Willie, it was his
beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her—
not his noble nature, which she knew not how to prize. As they
promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising,
gave all her time and thoughts to him, I, descending in an invisible
shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder, as I
had done before. He looked around, but, before he could see his
mother's face, the siren's voice attracted all his attention. Again
and again I endeavored to win him away; but he heard me not.
At length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded
boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. I seized the
moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and,
clasping him in my arms, spread my wings and soared far, far
away, bearing with me the prize I had toiled after and won. As
we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms
a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head,
with its soft, silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. Back
we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until on a soft, grassy
slope, under the shade of green trees, I thought I saw my darling
Gerty, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when I
awoke, pronouncing your name.

“And now, Gertrude, the bitterness of the cup I am called
upon to drink is passed away. A blessed angel has indeed ministered
unto me. I no longer wish to see my son again on earth,
for I am persuaded that my departure is in perfect accordance
with the schemes of a merciful Providence. I now believe that
Willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from

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temptation and evil; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty
still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is
ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the
straight and narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger,
a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while
yet on earth. Now, O my Father, I can say, from the depths of
my heart, `Thy will, not mine, be done!' ”

From this time until her death, which took place about a month
afterward, Mrs. Sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect
resignation and tranquillity. As she said, the last pang had lost
its bitterness. In the letter which she dictated to Willie, she
expressed her perfect trust in the goodness and wisdom of Providence,
and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love for
the All-wise. She reminded him of the early lessons she had
taught him, the piety and self-command which she had inculcated,
and made it her dying prayer that her influence might be increased,
rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a
continual reality. She gave the important caution to one who had
faithfully struggled with adversity, to beware of the dangers and
snares which attend prosperity, and besought him never to discredit
or disgrace his childhood's training.

After Gertrude had folded the letter, which she supposed completed,
and left the house to attend to those duties in school which
she still continued regularly to perform, Mrs. Sullivan reöpened
the nearly-covered sheet, and, with her own feeble and trembling
hand, recounted the disinterested, patient, loving devotion of Gertrude.
“So long,” said she, “my son, as you cherish in your
heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to
bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is capable upon one
whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray.”

So slow and gradual was the decline of Mrs. Sullivan, that her
death at last came as an unexpected blow to Gertrude, who,
though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realize that a
termination must come to their work.

In the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and
encourage her but the frightened and trembling Jane, did she
watch the departing spirit of her much-loved friend. “Are you

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afraid to see me die, Gertrude?” asked Mrs. Sullivan, about an
hour before her death. On Gertrude's answering that she was
not,—“Then turn me a little towards you,” said she, “that your
face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth.”

It was done, and, with her hand locked fast in Gertrude's, and
a look that spoke of the deepest affection, she expired.