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.