BY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW

　　IT was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt

　　the deepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years

　　old, the joy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters,

　　the elder of whom was going to be confirmed, still remained:

　　they were both good, charming girls; but the lost child always

　　seems the dearest; and when it is youngest, and a son, it

　　makes the trial still more heavy. The sisters mourned as young

　　hearts can mourn, and were especially grieved at the sight of

　　their parents' sorrow. The father's heart was bowed down, but

　　the mother sunk completely under the deep grief. Day and night

　　she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying it in

　　her bosom1, as a part of herself. She could not realize the

　　fact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin2 to

　　rest in the ground. She thought God could not take her darling

　　little one from her; and when it did happen notwithstanding

　　her hopes and her belief, and there could be no more doubt on

　　the subject, she said in her feverish3 agony, "God does not

　　know it. He has hard-hearted ministering spirits on earth, who

　　do according to their own will, and heed4 not a mother's

　　prayers." Thus in her great grief she fell away from her faith

　　in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind respecting death

　　and a future state. She tried to believe that man was but

　　dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these

　　doubts were no support to her, nothing on which she could

　　rest, and she sunk into the fathomless5 depths of despair. In

　　her darkest hours she ceased to weep, and thought not of the

　　young daughters who were still left to her. The tears of her

　　husband fell on her forehead, but she took no notice of him;

　　her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole existence

　　seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of the little one and of

　　every innocent word it had uttered.

　　The day of the little child's funeral came. For nights

　　previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning

　　twilight6 of this day she sunk from weariness into a deep

　　sleep; in the mean time the coffin was carried into a distant

　　room, and there nailed down, that she might not hear the blows

　　of the hammer. When she awoke, and wanted to see her child,

　　the husband, with tears, said, "We have closed the coffin; it

　　was necessary to do so."

　　"When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be

　　better?" she said with groans7 and tears.

　　The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate

　　mother sat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but

　　she saw them not; for her thoughts were far away from the

　　domestic hearth8. She gave herself up to her grief, and it

　　tossed her to and fro, as the sea tosses a ship without

　　compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral passed away, and

　　similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain. With tearful

　　eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and the

　　afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their

　　words of comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could

　　they speak, when they were themselves so full of grief? It

　　seemed as if she would never again know sleep, and yet it

　　would have been her best friend, one who would have

　　strengthened her body and poured peace into her soul. They at

　　last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would lie as

　　still as if she slept.

　　One night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to

　　her breathing, he quite believed that she had at length found

　　rest and relief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and

　　soon sunk himself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not

　　notice that his wife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided

　　silently from the house, to go where her thoughts constantly

　　lingered- to the grave of her child. She passed through the

　　garden, to a path across a field that led to the churchyard.

　　No one saw her as she walked, nor did she see any one; for her

　　eyes were fixed9 upon the one object of her wanderings. It was

　　a lovely starlight night in the beginning of September, and

　　the air was mild and still. She entered the churchyard, and

　　stood by the little grave, which looked like a large nosegay

　　of fragrant10 flowers. She sat down, and bent11 her head low over

　　the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth

　　that covered him- her little boy, whose smile was so vividly

　　before her, and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on

　　his sick-bed, she could not forget. How full of meaning that

　　glance had been, as she leaned over him, holding in hers the

　　pale hand which he had no longer strength to raise! As she had

　　sat by his little cot, so now she sat by his grave; and here

　　she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon it.

　　"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said

　　a voice quite close to her,- a voice that sounded so deep and

　　clear, that it went to her heart.

　　She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a

　　black cloak, with a hood12 closely drawn13 over his face; but her

　　keen glance could distinguish the face under the hood. It was

　　stern, yet awakened14 confidence, and the eyes beamed with

　　youthful radiance.

　　"Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and

　　entreaty sounded in the words.

　　"Darest thou to follow me?" asked the form. "I am Death."

　　She bowed her head in token of assent15. Then suddenly it

　　appeared as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of

　　the full moon on the many-colored flowers that decked the

　　grave. The earth that covered it was drawn back like a

　　floating drapery. She sunk down, and the spectre covered her

　　with a black cloak; night closed around her, the night of

　　death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could

　　penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then

　　the cloak was removed, and she found herself in a large hall,

　　of wide-spreading dimensions, in which there was a subdued

　　light, like twilight, reigning16, and in a moment her child

　　appeared before her, smiling, and more beautiful than ever;

　　with a silent cry she pressed him to her heart. A glorious

　　strain of music sounded- now distant, now near. Never had she

　　listened to such tones as these; they came from beyond a large

　　dark curtain which separated the regions of death from the

　　land of eternity17.

　　"My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It

　　was the well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in

　　boundless delight. Then the child pointed18 to the dark curtain.

　　"There is nothing so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother,

　　do you not see them all? Oh, it is happiness indeed."

　　But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out,

　　only the dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could

　　not see as the child saw,- he whom God has called to be with

　　Himself. She could hear the sounds of music, but she heard not

　　the words, the Word in which she was to trust.

　　"I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with

　　other happy children into the presence of the Almighty19. I

　　would fain fly away now; but if you weep for me as you are

　　weeping now, you may never see me again. And yet I would go so

　　gladly. May I not fly away? And you will come to me soon, will

　　you not, dear mother?"

　　"Oh, stay, stay!" implored20 the mother; "only one moment

　　more; only once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss

　　thee, and press thee to my heart."

　　Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name

　　was called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in

　　a plaintive21 voice.

　　"Hearest thou?" said the child. "It is my father who calls

　　thee." And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of

　　children weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child.

　　"Mother, surely you have not forgotten them."

　　And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great

　　terror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night.

　　Dim forms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as

　　they floated through the regions of death towards the dark

　　curtain, where they vanished. Would her husband and her

　　daughters flit past? No; their sighs and lamentations still

　　sounded from above; and she had nearly forgotten them, for the

　　sake of him who was dead.

　　"Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing," said the

　　child; "mother, the sun is going to rise."

　　An overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had

　　vanished, and she was being borne upwards22. All around her

　　became cold; she lifted her head, and saw that she was lying

　　in the churchyard, on the grave of her child. The Lord, in a

　　dream, had been a guide to her feet and a light to her spirit.

　　She bowed her knees, and prayed for forgiveness. She had

　　wished to keep back a soul from its immortal23 flight; she had

　　forgotten her duties towards the living who were left her. And

　　when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt lighter24. The

　　sun burst forth25, over her head a little bird carolled his

　　song, and the church-bells sounded for the early service.

　　Everything around her seemed holy, and her heart was

　　chastened. She acknowledged the goodness of God, she

　　acknowledged the duties she had to perform, and eagerly she

　　returned home. She bent over her husband, who still slept; her

　　warm, devoted26 kiss awakened him, and words of heartfelt love

　　fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle and strong as a

　　wife can be; and from her lips came the words of faith:

　　"Whatever He doeth is right and best."

　　Then her husband asked, "From whence hast thou all at once

　　derived such strength and comforting faith?"

　　And as she kissed him and her children, she said, "It came

　　from God, through my child in the grave."

　　THE END