all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness
of love; but it went through and through her heart that it was
the very last time a mother's fingers would ever be busy in
arranging or preparing Ellen's attire; the very last time she
would ever see or touch even the little inanimate things that
belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she was loth to
have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering
unwillingness to quit her hold of them, that one thing after
another was stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She
felt it was love's last act; words might indeed a few times
yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper; but sight, and
hearing, and touch, must all have done henceforth for ever.
Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on busily with
her work all the while, and when the last thing was safely
packed, shut the trunk and locked, it without allowing herself
to stop and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having
finished all her task, she went to the bedside; she had not
looked that way before.

Ellen was lying in the deep, sweet sleep of childhood; the
easy position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health
upon the cheek, showed that all causes of sorrow were for the
present far removed. Yet not so far either; for once, when
Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her, light as the touch of
that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to awaken a train
of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind. A
shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the
word "Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment — and
the shade passed away, and the expression of peace settled
again upon her brow; but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the