you will awake him;" were the low words of a young mother. She was seated at the foot of a handsome, mahogany bedstead, upon which lay her only child; his fair, young limbs, wasted by sickness. She raised her face but a moment, to speak, then buried it again amid the bed-clothes. The child's sleep was troubled; his eyes were only half closed in their sickly languor. With his every movement his mother roused herself, and gazed upon him, with a mingling of hope and fear upon her countenance. At last he awoke, tossed one little arm above his head, and feebly moaned the name of mother." She started from her seat, and hung over him. She kissed his burning forehead, and offered a cooling drink to his parched lips. "Oh! how is he Margaret; will he get well?" she asked, addressing her cousin; and, at the same time, dashing aside her blinding tears, that she might scan his features more closely. The scarlet fever had taken from his skin all its delicate smoothness; his sweet lip had lost its freshness, and his deep, blue eyes had in them the straining gaze of pain. "Will he get better?" she repeated, impatiently, grasping her cousin's arm, and watching her countenance with nervous anxiety. Mrs. Cushing; "he may. It is wrong for you to be so anxious and impatient. Your agitation may injure him. Come, and sit by the window with me, and leave him to the nurse." Cushing put her arm around her waist, and drew her unwillingly to the window. Mrs. "You must not grieve so, dear," she said, tenderly, even if he should be taken from you, he will find better teachers in the angels than he ever could meet with here." "Do n't speak of his dying," interrupted Mrs. Benton. "I cannot let him go! He is my only child. You have never seen death threaten your little one. You could not speak so calmly if you had." "I might not speak calmly, it is true," returned her cousin. "Yet would I trust in the overruling Providence of God. It is now but six months since my husband was removed from me by death. I cannot help sorrowing, but I do not forget my duties, and yield to despair. My love for my child is as great as your's; yet, if God should take her to Himself, I would be far less wretched than you. Death is to me but a short passage to a land of light. It is there where my sweetest hopes are garnered. Oh! Julia, if you would but think as I doif you would but be willing to struggle forward with trials which await every one here, and fix your eyes upon that better world as the place where your dreams of happiness are to be realized, then-" "Hark! did n't Albert move?" exclaimed Mrs. Benton, starting. She went to the bed, and looked at him a moment, then returned to her seat. "You are trying to comfort me, "I surely cannot tell, dear Julia," replied Margaret," she said; "I feel your kindness, but while I see him as he is now, I cannot be of the nurse, hastened back to little Albert's comforted. Oh!" she continued, shuddering, quiet room. Over his bright eye a cloud had "to see his little form laid in the cold grave gathered; the breath that heaved his bosom -I cannot listen to you. He will not die-came once more, and chokingly; then all was oh! no. He will be spared to me yet; this is over. She laid his sunny hair back upon his but the trial of a mother's love." Mrs. Cushing looked sadly upon her young face, pale through anxious watching. She wished to soothe her, to raise in her bosom an upward hope, to point her to where she might find a balm for her wrung spirit. But her efforts seemed useless. She pressed her hand silently, then left the room as noiselessly as possible, to prepare herself to return to her own home. forehead, and a tear fell upon it as her prayer "Oh! my boy, my child, my only child!" came from her lips, in that thrilling wail death alone seems to claim. "Can he be gone?" she Since the dangerous illness of little Albert, asked, turning to the doctor. "Albert, my she had spent most of her time in her cousin's child!" and she sunk down upon the bed, and family. On reaching her own house, her heart { twined her arms around his tiny form. She gave a thrill of sudden happiness, as a lovely laid her hand amid the locks of clustering hair, little creature of about two years ran forward in she had so often curled, when he stood at her the hall to meet her. She caught her beautiful knee in the playfulness of buoyant health. treasure in her arms, and kissed her rosy cheek, { She kissed the cheek where she had but lately while the glad, sweet laugh of infancy rang on marked the rich glow of health mantling. With her delighted ear. Ah! then she felt how a low cry of anguish, her tears burst forth. strong are the ties that link our hearts to those After a time, Mrs. Cushing attempted to calm young, bright beings. Then more sadly she her, with all the tenderness of sympathy: her turned her thoughts to her cousin; with no husband, hiding his own deep grief, endeavored pleasant hopes of a future state to beguile her to sooth her, but it was all in vain. Her only sorrow-bereavement threatening her, and no- answer was, "No one loved him as I did." thing but despair to meet it with. She raised her heart to heaven in gratitude that her child was spared her, to cheer her in her earthly pathway. } Again she pressed her lips to Ella's childish forehead, and watched her dancing eyes, and sweet roguish smile. Her imagination hurried to the far future. She saw her darling, blest with all the kind graces of womanhood-most lovely, and beloved-unselfish and unassuming, yet shedding the warmth of her sunny heart upon all. Whose dream of fancy is pure as a mother's? Early the next morning Mrs. Cushing was sent for by her cousin, whose child had grown worse. She obeyed the summons without hesitation. On entering the sick chamber, she found Mrs. Benton standing by Albert's bed, { watching him, with a trembling lip. Occasionally she turned her eyes inquiringly upon the doctor, who was marking the little sufferer'sternal happiness which a trust in the Divine heaving breath, with a serious countenance. "Oh! help him, doctor," she broke forth, as a stifling sound came from the dying child. "Save him, for God's sake! Is he dying?" she almost screamed, as that fearful sound again struck her ear. "Oh! is he dying?" and she fell back into the arms of her cousin, utterly senseless. She was carried from the room. Mrs. Cushing stayed with her until she was partially restored; then, leaving her to the care Three days his body was kept, at his mother's entreaty; then it was placed in the still grave. After he was buried, Mrs. Benton shut herself up in her own apartment, and would see no one, but her husband and Mrs. Cushing, who brought little Ella there, and kindly superintended her cousin's household matters. In vain Mrs. Cushing affectionately remonstrated with her upon her conduct, and showed her its weakness and wickedness. She represented to her the duties she owed her family. She spoke in earnest language, of the superior happiness little Albert must enjoy where he was. She tried to convince her, that the world of spirits is not as far removed from us as we imagine; that there is a deeper and wider sympathy between heaven and earth than we dream of, in our careless moods. She told of the calm, in Providence brings to the soul, even when it is bowed down beneath the chastening rod that smites, although it is in love. Mrs. Cushing once took little Ella up in Mrs. Benton's room, hoping she might arouse her from her melancholy by her careless prattle. The poor child was received with a burst of passionate tears, and the mother was begged to remove her, as she only reminded her more forcibly of the loss she had sustained. woman One dull, rainy morning, Mrs. Cushing had been conversing earnestly with her cousin, and trying to cheer her spirits. She soon found how useless it was, and she left her with a heavy heart, to seek Ella, that the child's gaiety might dispel her sombre feelings. Not finding her in the sitting room or parlour, she descended to the kitchen, to ask the servant about her. The was professing her ignorance of the truant's whereabout, when the sweet, familiar laugh of Ella, herself, caught her mother's ear. She went to the back door, and found her seated contentedly on the damp bricks of the area, her shoes and stockings by her side, and in her lap a pet kitten. Several playthings had been carried out there, and were carelessly strewed around, as if the little owner had been there some time. Mrs. Cushing's heart gave a throb of sudden pain. "Oh! Ella, I fear you have taken your deathcold," she exclaimed, lifting her in her arms, and feeling the chill her damp clothes gave. She hurried with her up stairs, where a slight fire was kept burning. All day she watched her anxiously; towards evening the color in her cheek grew deep and feverish; her sweet eyes shone with a flashing brilliancy. She was in a high fever, and her little limbs were aching and sore. The doctor was sent for; in answer to the mother's anxious inquiries, he replied cheerfully, that she would soon be well. But weeks and months elapsed, and still that lovely infant languished in sickness. She became emaciated to the last degree; her white arms lost all their roundness, and there was no color in her little, thin cheek. Her once laughing eyes were sunken; and in her pain she turned them upon her mother with the appealing, imploring look so entirely a child's. It was beyond the power of the fondest mother to remove her sufferings. From the commencement of the child's illness, Mrs. Benton aroused herself from her inert melancholy, to sympathise, in her turn, with her cousin, who had been so true a friend to her in her trial. The moment she made the effort, a new spirit seemed to come upon her. She was unwearied in her kindness to the little invalid; night and day she sought to relieve and be of use to the mother. Her voice was low, and tender; she found it a relief to her feelings to smooth Ella's pillow, to fan her gently when a feverish glow was upon her cheek, and to try to ease her hard position. Often she clasped her cousin's hand and wept silently upon her shoulder, in that sympathy which it needs not words to express. She seemed surprised at the calmness of Mrs. Cushing, who hovered quietly around Ella's bed, the tear and smile of love often in her eye and upon her lip, but resignation was upon her smooth, pale brow. "You must have a strong hope, indeed," whispered Mrs. Benton one evening, as they sat together, watching Ella, by the dim lamp light, "to support you, while you see that sweet lamb's sufferings. Oh! Margaret, to feel and trust as you do, I would give worlds. You suffer, yet you do not feel that despairing, desolate grief I did, when I saw my darling smitten down with sickness." err. me. "I do suffer, it is true," answered Mrs. Cushing; "natural feelings and ties are strong with us both. But although I cannot always restrain my tears, I feel and know that all is right; that this trial is come upon me for good that it is given by One whose mercy cannot I do feel at times as if it is too heavy for I could pray that the cup might pass from my lips, but again the truth comes to my mind, that no other affliction could be so really useful to me, or God in his wisdom would not have ordered this. Oh! how often do we harshly and bitterly dwell upon the troubles which are appointed us, only for our own sakes, in the tenderest love. He seeks by them to guide our souls from a wilderness which contains every evil thing, and to lead us to a garden blossoming in fragrance and ever-living beauty. Can you not feel that it is so, in some degree, Julia ?" "I see it more clearly than I did," was the reply, made in a musing tone; it appears as if Albert's death had opened in my heart a fountain of love and sympathy for every human creature in suffering. It has given me a yearning desire to lighten the sorrows of any one, no matter how humble in life, or how bad they may be. I sometimes fancy my child's angelspirit is near me in my dreams, urging me to overcome the selfish grief I so long indulged in, and by a broader love, to fit my soul for entrance to where grief cannot come." "When our friends die," said Mrs. Cushing, "it must bring the spiritual world nearer to us. Our thoughts, feelings, and holiest sympathies are gone thither. The time has been when I have yearned to lay down this struggling life, and go where all would be in harmony with my own soul. We must associate there with those who are most like ourselves; but I must forget that I am not yet prepared to leave this world, or I would be there. My earthly duties are not finished, and even this world grows more fair to contented eyes." Talking thus, a pensive quiet filled their hearts-the pure quiet of resignation. All was still and hushed in the sick chamber, as if the angels of rest and peace were near. The shaded light fell gently upon Mrs. Benton leaned over the bed, with white lips. "Ella, darling!" murmured the mother; "Ella! Ella!" The child opened her eyes a moment, and gazed vacantly into her mother's face. "She does n't know me," said the mother, chokingly; she stooped and kissed her dying child; a fluttering breath, and the spirit fled. "Oh, God! help me to say thy will be done!" were the low, half-breathed words that came from the mother's heart, and broke the stillness. Though her fair treasure was taken from her, for a time, Mrs. Cushing did not sit down in idle grief. No duties were neglected; others were not forgotten in her selfish, absorbing sorrow. Still her kind heart went forth in its sympathy and sweet charities. Her pure influence was felt by Mrs. Benton, who by degrees became possessed of her calm resignation under trial, and her ever active, useful spirit. |