Our little Mary was dying. The film had gathered over those deep blue orbs, and her emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched out on her little cradle, around which were gathered sympathizing friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she had never looked upon death.

Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.

A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to help her.

Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some, and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees, she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in gratitude and thanksgiving.

Summer passed with its weary watching, and her disease assumed a more deffinite appearance, and the mother felt that Mary must die.

'Twas early autumn; the mother purchased some flannel and prepared a robe for her darling, with a mother's pride, believing that that would be beneficial to her. It was late in the evening when the task was completed, and a neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and the impatient mother waited the approach of day that she might place it upon her little form. O how strongly did the bright red robe contrast with the lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands, as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked like two white lilies intermingled with the thick clustering blossoms of the running rose. The mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her so comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth would improve her health, but when she bore her to her father, saying, "here is our doll;" he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was fading away from earth.

"O Albert," said Carrie, "does she not look now as though she might live?"

He could not bear to crush the last hope in the heart of his young wife, and remained silent.

She continued,

"No one gives me any encouragement, but I do feel more hopeful about her this morning, for she rested better through the night than she has done for several nights."

While she was yet speaking, a piercing shriek broke from the lips of the child, every feature expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of hope in the heart of that young mother went out forever.

From that time, her precious one failed fast. Vomiting succeeded, and the little fountain of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little infant in her comfortable flannel robe, it would be the last time she would be dressed till she was wrapped in her shroud for the silent grave.

During the night her feeble frame was attacked by severe spasms, and shriek after shriek filled the heart of the mother with unutterable anguish. When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with the damp dews of death upon her marble forehead. Little hope was entertained of her surviving till morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work, and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.

It was a cool day, and the running rose bush that clambered over the door, was laden with withered flowers that had lived their little day and faded before the early autumn winds. Many a hardier flower was blooming brightly, and lifting their heads seemingly in proud defiance of the chilling winds that were blowing round them. One little bud enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving over the door, was perishing in its beauty, even like the little cradled innocent, that even then was passing away before the icy breath of the dark plumed angel. A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother and aunt, and the grandmother upon the father's side was present, and together we watched the failing breath of the dying child. Six brief months only had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of death, felt how mysterious are the Providences of God. The dried and the withered leaf, the full blown flower, and the opening bud were there, and all were spared, while the youngest one of the group was passing away and teaching the one great lesson, "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field."

Little Emma stood gazing upon her with an expression of wonder, and when told little Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes and smilingly said, "O Emma will have an angel cousin;" thus teaching a lesson of faith and trust.

When the shadows of evening gathered around us, the doctor came in and was surprised to find her still living. As she had not swallowed during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge wet in water to her lips to find that she swallowed rather eagerly and without any difficulty until she had taken several drops. He told the mother she had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop a little of it into her mouth as long as she continued to swallow. Hope sprung up in her heart, perhaps she might yet live, and quick as lightning the recollection of many children who had been snatched from the very jaws of death, passed through her memory. But while she was making the preparation, the little bosom heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that Mary was an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the mother fell almost fainting into the arms of her husband.

The crimson robe that was placed upon her with so many hopes by the fond hands of a mother, was removed by other hands, and the little body was prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her with tearful eyes and an aching heart.

It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb. The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to receive the proffered tokens of affection.

And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.

O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.

Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost child.

Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about the departed cousin.

"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.

But time passed on, and other changes came. They left their cottage home where this great grief had rested upon them. Another darling Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their affections. The husband soon left his wife and child, and sought to build up his fortune in a distant land, while the wife and mother dedicates her time to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly Father has committed to her trust.

One brief year sped rapidly away, and winter again returned with his winds. It was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely round the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet furiously against the casement, when Mrs. Barlow, after attending to those duties that make a New England home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains, and seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced preparing her little Emma for bed.

"Oh," said she, "how the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little children do that have no home?"

Said her mother, "God tempers the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb."

"Mamma, do you know I am going to have a party and go to heaven and invite my angel cousin?"

"Are you, indeed."

"But mamma, it is time to say our Father now," and the happy mother listened to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped the Lord's prayer, and the appropriate "now I lay me," after which she soon dropped into a peaceful slumber.

Thus evening was spent after evening with the mother and her dear child, happy in each other's love.

Winter passed, and genial spring came forth in infantile beauty, unbending the streamlets from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds upon the trees, thus making her early preparation for future beauty and usefulness.

Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning, and leaving her little crib, nestled down beside her mother. After laying quiet some time, she asked suddenly,

"Is it Sunday, mamma?"

Being answered in the affirmative, she said,

"It would be a beautiful day to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and Emma, and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have a great one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little one like my little angel cousin."

A shade of sadness passed over the mother's face, but rested not upon it. The form of her darling child was in her arms, her downy cheek resting against her own, and the bright blue eyes gazing earnestly into hers with a volume of meaning in their azure depths.

"But you must get up now, for it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we shall go to meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to God. O how glad I am," and the dear child clapped her dimpled hands with delight.

And so they went to church Sabbath after Sabbath, while Emma ever seemed to enjoy the services, often making observations upon what she heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday; and Saturday evenings her play things were all carefully laid aside, and she expressed great sympathy for poor little children that played upon that day.

The story of the cross would affect her to tears, and yet she loved to dwell upon it, and it was with great effort her attention could be withdrawn from it.

One rosy twilight hour, when the departed beams of the sun still lingered, tinging the curtains of the west with those bright and gorgeous hues that so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma and her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together, and gaze upon the scene.

Spring was rapidly advancing, and the face of nature was lovely to the eye. The half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and birds carolled their evening songs on every spray.

But the things of earth, beautiful though they were, could not satisfy the mind of the child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel cousin, and the mysteries of that unseen world,

"Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine spheres."

Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful expression, she said,

"O mamma, what would you do if Emma should die? You would have to carry away my crib and little chair, and put all my play things away, and you would have no little Emma. O mamma, how lonesome you would be;" and bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms around her mother's neck and wept upon her bosom. Tears too, dimmed the mother's eyes as she pressed her fondly to her heart, and kissed away her tears, while a painful thought went through her heart, "can it be her conversation is prophetic?"

She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke of the joys of heaven, and after listening to her childish prayer, laid her in her little crib with a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning to her sitting room, long and sadly she reflected upon the words of her darling child, and tried to fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray that night, "Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever thou art preparing for me, and enable me ever to say, 'thy will be done;'" and she retired to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable presentiment of coming sorrow.

The glad light of morning in a measure dissipated the shadows of the previous evening, and the mother and daughter met with a pleasant greeting,--the little girl busied about her play, while her mother attended to her domestic duties. They frequently interchanged cheerful words. Emma would sometimes personate a house-maid, and assist her mother in dusting and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up into her face, said,

"O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer."

"Why, Emma," replied her mother, "you will want them yourself."

"O no, mamma, I shall not want them; you may have my little brella, and all."

The mother's cheek blanched, and a fearful pang again shot through her heart.

"O Emma, don't talk so, you will wear them all yourself."

"O no, mamma, you may have them;" and seating herself in her little chair, she sat long, looking thoughtful and serious.

It was morning, bright beautiful morning. The swelling buds had burst their confines, and the apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees that surrounded the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented, many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich harvest of delicious fruit. The birds warbled their matin songs in sweet melody; the honey bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde their winter's store; and every thing seemed rejoicing in the light of that glad morning. Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself on the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at the flies that buzzed around him.

But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature. She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the door to keep out the light and noise.

The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up with a smile and say,

"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a deep, heavy sleep.

She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her, pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but thought her symptoms favorable.

Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but the disease rapidly increased.

The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by begging to be carried to her own dear mother.

The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance, her extremities becoming cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state. While laying thus, she started up, exclaiming,

"Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?"

"O, yes, my dear," said her mother.

"Papa said. I should."

Then falling into a deep stupor, she noticed nothing for about two hours, when looking up bright and wishfully, turning her body towards her mother, she said, earnestly,

"Pray."

Her mother commenced the sweet prayer, so familiar to her,

"Now, I lay me."

She joined her trembling voice with hers, and lisped again the words she had loved so well. She appeared exhausted with the effort, and turning away her little head, and closing her weary eyes, lay apparently asleep about five minutes, when arousing herself, with a sweet expression of countenance, she gently murmured,

"Amen."

"O," said the mother, "perhaps that is Emma's last prayer."

"It may be," said the grandmother; "and how vividly we should remember it, if it should be."

Even so--that was the last note of praise that fell from those infant lips upon earth. But often does it start upon memory's ear, during the silence of the midnight hour, and seem like gentle whisperings from the spirit land, and bring back recollections at once painful and pleasant to the soul.

She slept till the twilight hour, when she wished her mother to carry her to the window. Oh, happily were those hours usually spent, when the duties of the day had all been performed, and the quiet shades of evening gathered round their dwelling. Often was their talk of heaven. O, they were happy hours! but they flew by upon golden wings, leaving their deep impress on that fond mother's heart.

As she sat with her that evening, looking upon the varied prospect that was spread out before them, no word passed her lips. Her mother pointed to the green grass, the trees covered with clustering blossoms, the river, hurrying on to join old Ocean, reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun on its placid surface; and to the busy hum of life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that lay distinctly spread out before them; but nothing could elicit a word from her, till turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes for the last time upon the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its rich sunset dyes, she said,

"O, mamma, lay me in my little bed;" and after noticing apparently every object in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep stupor for four successive days and nights. Her face was pale as marble, and incoherent words escaped her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,

"Oh, carry me home--carry me home." When she revived from the stupor, at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering. But no word escaped her lips.

Everything that medical aid could do was done, and every attention was paid to the suffering child by her parents and friends, and every effort used to stay the disease. But "he who seeth not as man seeth," willed it otherwise, and all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day the rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the sufferings of the dear little one were extreme. Even then, it was evident she knew her friends, and many were the tokens of affection bestowed upon them as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to her necessities.

Often would she reach up her little emaciated hands, and placing them upon her mother's cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow beside her, and take her little wasted hand in hers. And when she sang to her, in a low, trembling voice, her little favorite hymn,

"There is a happy land, far; far away,"

she lay quiet, and seemed listening with much attention, raising one little hand three times, then laying it fondly round her mother's neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken mother breathe sad, melancholy music into the ears of her dying child.

Towards evening that restless state, so common in cholera infantum, came on, accompanied at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said must soon wear her out.

He gave her an opiate, hoping to relieve the distress.

Towards midnight she dropped into a little slumber, and the mother, weary with watching, retired, leaving the father and a sister, to take care of her.

It was Sabbath morning; the gray dawn was just streaking the east with the earliest beams of day, when the father, who sat a little distance from his child, thought he saw her gasp for breath. He sprang to her side, and saw too truly, that that pale visitant from the spirit land, that comes to us but once, was dealing with his child. The mother and grandmother, who had watched over her so unweariedly, soon reached the bed; but the brittle thread of life was snapped, and the pure spirit had passed away, with the pale messenger, to the spirit land. There were no loud lamentations. The mother pressed her cheeks between her hands, exclaiming,

"Oh, Emma."

Then taking her little pulseless hand in her own, seated herself beside her on the bed, calm and tearless.

The father, with his face buried in his hands, sat motionless; but no murmur escaped his lips. He had learned submission to the divine will, and was comforted in his hour of need.

And brighter, and brighter grew the beams of that holy Sabbath day. That day the dear child had loved so well. She had loved to enter the earthly temple, and join in the hymns of thanksgiving and praise that arose, like sweet incense, upon their sacred altars. And now, with the early dawning of that sacred day, she had passed forever from earth, to join the pure throng of worshippers before the throne of God. The smile of heaven was upon her face, as though the light of the happy spirit still irradiated it.

Loving hands placed her gently in the shroud and prepared her for the tomb.

As that quiet twilight hour came on, who can picture the agony of the bereaved mother's heart? She stole softly into the chamber of death, and taking the little cold waxen hand in hers, bent fondly over, and kissed the marble forehead. It was their favorite hour--the one they ever spent together, and those blue eyes were ever then fixed upon her, as she read the word of God, repeated infantile hymns, or murmured the evening prayer. But now those dear eyes were forever shut on earth, but open to the more exalted beauties of heaven.

As she recalled the past, in that solemn place, she weighed well her conduct towards her child, and asked herself if there had been aught to tarnish the purity of that spirit that had just entered the portals of heaven; and earnestly did she beseech her Heavenly Father to forgive all that was amiss, and cleanse her from all sin, that she might be prepared for a reunion in a better world.

It was autumn, when little Mary was placed in the tomb, and all things spoke of death and decay. It was now the last days of spring, when the trees had put on their robes of deeper green, and all nature spoke of a resurrection from the dead, when her little coffin was taken from the tomb and placed in the hearse, to be buried in the same grave with her cousin Emma. Emma lay beautiful in death, looking almost like a thing of life, with a smile still lingering upon her lips, while fresh half-blown flowers were placed in her icy fingers, and strewed around the coffin, soon to wither and fade, with that frail child of clay. Mary had decayed with the pure buds she held in her hands, and "dust thou art and unto dust thou must return," was legibly written on both.

The same mourning circle convened, and bore their loved ones to the place of graves. The sisters stood side by side, as the coffins were let down into the earth, and mingled their tears together. It was a melancholy sight, and spoke loudly of the uncertainty of human life.

The man of hoary hairs stood over the graves of the tender infant, and felt sensibly, that while the "young may die, the old must die."

The parents cast a long lingering look into the greedy grave that was forever to hide their treasure from their sight, then turned sadly away to walk again the pathway of human life, and receive the portion their heavenly Father may see fit to meet out to them.

Sweet is their place of rest. A weeping willow droops over their grave, and the flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem, and gentle zephyrs fan the leaves of the weeping willow, and murmur among its branches.. Two white marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped up mound, and point to the traveller's eye the place where rest the remains of the angel cousins.