Thus wrought the evil she designed. 
  Thy life and songs forever o’er,
  Thou wilt charm my ear no more. 
  Thus in life’s uncertain day,
  The singing birds oft snatch’d away: 
  And they who linger long in pain
  Suffered to linger and remain. 
  But God is just in his decrees,
  And wisely orders things like these.

The Angel Cousin.

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.