What avails it to describe her--perished as we know that fair form to
be, withered in its bloom. Yet she was handsome. It was not in any
particular feature; it was in the whole expression of her face and form.
Her auburn hair, in its plain quiet braid--her neat and scrupulously
plain attire, her mild blue eye, the air of placid resignation about her
presence, seemed so lovely, for she bore no outward token of the grief
within; she had never wailed or cried her sorrow away; but though her
gay smile had passed away forever, she had not become the gloomy
misanthrope or the fretful querulous invalid. She had complained to no
one. Her old grandfather knew her griefs, but he also knew that it was a
subject he could not offer her consolation upon. To aid the suffering as
far as her slender means would allow, to tend the couch of sickness, to
cheer the desponding heart in its hour of darkness, these were the
occupations with which she strove, not to forget her sorrows--that could
never be--but to afford an outlet for that love for her fellow creatures
which no selfish grief could lessen. And she could smile and speak in
cheering tones to others in their hour of woe, shedding over their
darkened paths the light of hope, while deep in the fountains of her own
heart that sweet flame was extinguished forever on earth, and dust and
ashes alone remained.

But over that lovely countenance, so serene and beautiful, the shadow of
death had already fallen;--that dread disease that beautifies ere it
kills its victims, had placed its fell stamp upon her. Daily her figure
became thinner and sharper, her breath grew shorter and a hacking cough
commenced, while a hectic flush sometimes came over her pallid
cheek--but too plainly warning those who looked upon her, that
consumption had marked her for its victim.