I remembered how she had always worked for the poor; not so much in societies (where the good that is accomplished in one way is often more than counterbalanced by the harm that is done in others), as in the quiet of her home, and in the humble habitations of God's poor. I remembered, with a melancholy thrill, how she had worked for our soldiers, and had not withheld good deeds from an invading alien army. Reverently I took in mine her little, symmetrical hand as it lay peacefully over the heart that had ever beat in unison with all that was good. It was weather-beaten, and I could feel the rough places on the palm through the pretty white silk glove in which it was encased. Cold and stark in death, it gave no responsive pressure to my own. I thought of its past service to me in which it never tired. It had trained my own from the rudimentary "straight lines" and "pot hooks," through all the intricacies of skilled penmanship, and from the picturesque letters on a sampler to the complete stitches of advanced embroidery. The little motionless hand that I now held in my own had picked corn from cracks and crevices in bureau drawers, which served as troughs for Garrard's cavalry horses, to make bread with which to appease her hunger and mine. I gazed upon the pallid face and finely-chiseled features. The nose never seemed so perfect, or the brow so fair, or the snow-white hair so beautiful. The daintiest of mull caps heightened the effect of the perfect combination of feature, placidity and intellectual expression. I fancied I had never seen her look so beautiful, and felt that it was meet that we should lay her away in a tomb where she could rest undisturbed until the resurrection morn, not doubting that the verdict of a great and good God would assign her a place among His chosen ones.
Soothing to our bruised hearts was the sweet singing of those who watched at night beside her lifeless form. With gratitude we remember them still: Laura and Mary Williams, Emma and John Kirkpatrick, Josiah Willard and John McKoy. One of the hymns they sang was "Jerusalem, My Happy Home."
The hour for the funeral service came. Friends and neighbors and fellow-citizens had been assembling for several hours, and now the house was full, and the yard was thronged. Where did this concourse of people come from--old men, war-stricken veterans, and a few young men who had survived the bloody conflict that had decimated the youth of the South, and boys and women and girls! All alike came to pay respect to the deceased friend, and to show sympathy for the bereaved and lonely sisters. That sainted man and friend of ours, Rev. John S. Wilson, took his stand near the casket, and we sat near him, and those who loved us best got very near to us. Ah, well do I remember them! I could call each by name now, and the order in which they came. An impressive silence ensued, broken by the man of God uttering in hopeful intonation and animated manner, "She is not dead, but sleepeth," and a sermon followed upon the resurrection of God's people, never surpassed in interest and pathos. All felt the power of his theme, and the eloquence of his words. He also spoke of the humble modesty of his friend, who had counted herself least in the congregation of the righteous, and dispensed favors to others in an unobtrusive manner, and who practically illustrated the divine command: "Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you." This beautiful funeral tribute was succeeded by the hymn--