She who was the sweet singer of my little Israel is no more.  The child whose sense of beauty made her the swiftest herald to me of every fair discovery and new household joy, will never greet me again with her surprises of gladness.  She who, leaning upon my arm as we walked, silently conveyed to me such a sense of evenness, firmness, dignity; she whose child-like love was turning into the womanly affection for a father; she who was complete in herself, as every good child is, not suggesting to your thoughts what you would have a child be, but filling out the orb of your ideal beauty, still partly in outline; her seat, her place at the table, at prayers, at the piano, at church; the sight of her going out and coming in; her tones of speech, her helpful spirit and hands, and all the unfinished creations of her skill, every thing that made her that which the growing associations with her name had built up in our hearts,—­all is gone, for this life; it is removed like a tree; it is departed like a shepherd’s tent.

And all this, too, is saved.  It survives, or I would not, I could not, write thus.  There comes to my sorrowing heart some such message as the sons of Jacob brought to their father, when they said, “Joseph is yet alive, and he is governor over all the land of Egypt.”

Jesus of Nazareth has been in my dwelling, and has done a great work of healing.  He has saved my child; saved her to be a happy spirit; forever saved her for himself, to employ her powers of mind and heart in his blissful service; saved her for the joyful welcome and embraces of her mother, and of a second mother, who laid deep and strong foundations in her character for goodness and knowledge.  He has saved her for me, through all eternity.  She will be my sweet singer again; she will have in store for me all the wonderful discoveries which her intense love of beauty will have made her treasure up, to impart, when the child becomes, as it were, parent, for a little while, to the soul of the parent in heaven, new-born.  I said to her, a day or two before she died, “Those mothers will show you things in heaven; for we read, ’And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb.’”

But John mistook this heavenly saint for an angel, so glorious was his appearance, and he fell down to worship him, but was told, “See thou do it not; for I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book.”  Then what will she herself be, when these eyes behold her again?  And what will she have treasured up to tell me? she, who always brought rare things for me from the woods and the shore, surpassing those of her companions.  If He who redeemed her, and has presented her faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, will bestow that nurture and culture upon her which are implied in leading her to living fountains of waters, what will she be? and how good it will seem that she left earth so early, since it was the will of God, to enter upon such a career of bliss!