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,