the fatherless. She opened her mouth with wisdom; on her tongue was the law of kindness. Give her of the fruit of her hands; let her own works praise her in the gates."
I was disappointed that the speaker did not add the climax that rose to my heart, "Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all." Those who draw the character of a deceased friend for grieving love, have but a losing office. What is said may be just, but it falls short either in fulness or warmth.
But the closing hymn, sung in a simple tune which she loved, brought me the healing relief of tears. I quote it from memory, at the distance of half a century, still freshly embalmed:
"When Jesus dwelt in mortal clay,
What were his works from day to day,
But miracles of truth and grace,
That spread salvation through our race.
"The man may breathe, but never lives,
Who much receives, yet nothing gives;
Whom none can love, whom none can thank,
Creation's blot, creation's blank.
"But he who marks, from day to day,
By generous acts his radiant way,
Treads the same path his Saviour trod—
The path to glory and to God."
The emptiness of the mansion, after its presiding
