BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.

There are many childless mothers in our land. In some homes there never lived a little child to make them happy; but in others the spirits of the little ones have departed. They dwell in another home—the "dear heavenly home." Their mothers, those childless mothers, weep day and night in their loneliness and sadness. This sketch is of a mother who had buried all her little babes—four precious children—all her little family. The mother's name was Ellen Moore.

For many months after the birth of her first child, Ellen was free from sorrow as a bird in the morning. She never thought affliction might come to her blessed home. It was not surprising, for she had never known what bereavement and bitter disappointment were. She was educated to be a child of sunshine. She had always lived amid smiles and tenderness, and when the fearful cloud of sorrow broke, in an unexpected moment, upon her head, she seemed bowed down, never to rise again in health and beauty.

It was a sad day in our neighborhood when Ellen's first little babe died; we all wept. Not so much because he was dead, for we all felt that he was at rest; but his dear mother was so sorely troubled, her heart ached so grievously, it seemed as if she too would die. Days and nights Ellen wept, and moaned, and walked her house. The tears seemed to burn their way down her cheeks. She spoke but seldom, yet that pitiful moan she so often breathed out pierced our souls and made us all very sad.

After a few weeks, the consolation we offered her quieted her feelings, and she became calm. She went to church, called on her friends, and attended to her duties at home. But there was ever a sadness in her voice and manners. Her home was so lonely, so strangely still and vacant, and Ellen so silent, that the voice of gladness was not heard in it again until a second beautiful boy was born under its roof.

We were all happy then. Even Ellen smiled as she kissed her dear babe—but a tear followed the smile and the kiss so soon, we knew her wounded heart was not then healed. She was very sad, and felt that this babe, too, might only be loaned her for a short time. It was not long before we all felt so. That little face, so pale, so sad, so beautiful, evidently bore the seal of death upon it. He refused all nourishment, and pined slowly away. Ellen knew he must die, but could not say so. She could not shed one tear to relieve her sorrowful heart. She neither spoke nor wept, until her infant was laid in its coffin.

A friend had woven a wreath of beautiful flowers, and laid it on the satin pillow of the coffin, and placed a delicate rose-bud in the little hand of the babe. Ellen went alone to take her last kiss, when, seeing her babe so beautiful in death, she seated herself on the floor and wept freely.

"Who loved my babe so fondly?" said she, when she came from the room. "Who has been so kind and thoughtful of me? It has unsealed my tears; now let me weep alone." We left her. She came out of that room a changed woman. She assisted us in our preparations for the burial of the dead, spoke cheerfully to her husband, conversed freely about her children in heaven, and remarked that henceforth her life should be worthy of a Christian. We buried the sweet babe by the side of his brother, and planted a rose-tree over his grave. Then our thoughts turned to Ellen, whose whole manner indicated resignation and peace.

We were not surprised at the effect of grief upon Ellen, for I have told you she was not educated to bear human misery with much composure. Yet what her parents had left undone seemed to be effected by those severe dispensations of God. Our Father in heaven often educates us by his chastisements, giving us wisdom, patience, hope, trustfulness and resignation, according to the severity with which he afflicts us.

Ellen maintained the same cheerful manner from the time of the burial of her second babe to the birth of her third child. Her friends hoped many blessings for Ellen in the life of this child. It was a daughter, apparently healthy; and as its mother had endured so severe a trial we hoped the Lord would deal mercifully with her in sparing this one to her. For one short year we had reason to hope for the life of the child. But it was too frail a creature for this world, and, like its little brothers, died in early infancy. And its mother—we found her to be a practical Christian indeed.

Instead of moaning and violent grief, she held her babe as it breathed its latest breath, and was first to break the awful silence in the room that succeeded the final struggle, with these words: "She is with her little brothers now, and I have reason to bless the Lord." She could say no more then; and a few large tears fell on the cheek of her babe as it still lay on her lap. Once only did she freely yield to tears. It was when her husband first heard of the death of his babe. His anguish overcame her composure. Soon recovered however, she maintained a truly Christian deportment. The third little grave was opened in the burial lot of Mr. Moore, and the body of this babe laid by its little brothers.

A fourth babe was born in the lonely home of Ellen, and fresh hopes cherished for the long life of her child. The burden of every prayer offered at that family altar was, "Lord, if it be thy will, suffer us to rear this tender child!"

"Yet though I pray thus," said Ellen, "my heart is strong to meet its early death; and if it dies, I shall not mourn as for my first-born. God has afflicted me, but I am profited thereby."

"Very true, Ellen, but if this fourth dear babe is taken from us, we shall almost doubt the mercy of God. How can you, in your present delicate health, endure to lay this last dear babe by the side of the departed ones, and again find your home desolate and silent?"

"My body is weak, Mary, but my spirit is well instructed in resignation, and can calmly bear whatever new affliction God pleases to send. You have called me changed since Alfred died, and sometimes too silent and sad. I am changed and often silent, but not sad. My treasures are in heaven, and my communings are more with the spirits of my children in heaven than with the friends who are with me here. And if this child dies, Mary,——if he dies—his death will prepare me for the duties of all the rest of my life."

The beautiful boy passed away just as his little lips had learned to pronounce his mother's name—suddenly, unexpectedly to us all, and all yielded to our grief but Ellen. We greatly feared his father would become insane.

But Ellen—believe me, she was transformed from a child of sunshine to an angel and minister of light in darkness. She sat by her husband as serene and collected as if her babe only slept; not a tear swept her cheek, not a tremulous word fell from her lips, as she soothed her stricken companion; her pale face wore no look of despair, and she directed every funeral preparation with as much composure as if her heart had not felt the awful wound. The world called her heartless,—but Christ must have owned her as one of his brightest jewels, almost a perfect disciple. When she spoke, we felt as if some mysterious power from heaven was in our midst. We thought as much of the saint-like fortitude and resignation of our feeble Ellen, and wept as much to witness her calmness and spiritual strength, as for the loss of our interesting little friend.

Our pastor called to offer gospel consolations to the sorrowing mother, but he wept as Ellen greeted him, saying, "God hath much love for us, Brother Ellis, for he chasteneth much. Now, my only prayer is, that Henry may be led to perceive it and be at peace. If you have words of comfort, go to him and still his troubled spirit."

The aged came to console her, but went back to their dwellings feeling that she was as well instructed in the wisdom of heaven as the oldest servant among them. The young and happy came to mingle tears of sympathy with her, but returned to dwell upon her words as upon communications from the spirit-land, rather than from a creature like themselves. Her words found a way to the soul of the most thoughtless, fixing their minds upon heaven, and revealing the unseen glories of a better home, and the beauty of Christian faith in an earthly one.

She was a Christian mother. When she put on Christ, she was "a new creature" She believed her first grief was almost a murmuring against heaven. Surely we know she bore an equal love for all her children, but when her last one died, she loved God and her Saviour more, believing fully that God would not do her wrong,—that he only sought the good of his creatures in his dispensations,—that although they seemed grievous and inscrutable to them, he saw the end from the beginning, and chastized whom he loved.