“There she lay in the parlor, her face as calm as if she had never known the harshness of brutal guardians, the agony of poison, the terrible pangs of dissolution. Death had at last given her peace, the peace which passeth understanding.”
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“There she lay in the parlor, her face as calm as if she had never known the harshness of brutal guardians, the agony of poison, the terrible pangs of dissolution. Death had at last given her peace, the peace which passeth understanding.”
Henry Beumond worked at Guild & Wetherbee’s paper mill in Westminster, Vermont. Late in the afternoon of June 12, 1895, he descended to the mill-race to rake out the debris and spied a starch box caught up on the racks. He fished it out and was surprised to find the lid was nailed shut. He pried it open.
These Dark Mountains
“There she lay in the parlor, her face as calm as if she had never known the harshness of brutal guardians, the agony of poison, the terrible pangs of dissolution. Death had at last given her peace, the peace which passeth understanding.”
