ry day of her life the
mother thinks of the firstborn that was with her for so short a while:
many and many a time has she taken her daughters to the grave, in Saint
Bride's, where he lies buried; and she wears still at her neck a little
little lock of gold hair, which she took from the head of the infant as
he lay smiling in his coffin. It has happened to me to forget the
child's birthday, but to her never; and often in the midst of common talk
comes something that shows she is thinking of the child still,--some
simple allusion that is to me inexpressibly affecting.

I shall not try to describe her grief, for such things are sacred and
secret; and a man has no business to place them on paper for all the
world to read. Nor should I have mentioned the child's loss at all, but
that even that loss was the means of a great worldly blessing to us; as
my wife has often with tears and thanks acknowledged.

While my wife was weeping over her child, I am ashamed to say I was
distracted with other feelings besides those of grief for its loss; and I
have often since thought what a master--nay, destroyer--of the affections
want is, and have learned from experience to be thankful for _daily
bread_. That acknowledgment of weakness which we make in imploring to be
relieved from hunger and from temptation, is surely wisely put in our
daily prayer. Think of it you who are rich, and take heed how you turn a
beggar away.

The child lay there in its wicker cradle, with its sweet fixed smile in
its face (I think the angels in heaven must have been glad to welcome
that pretty innocent smile); and it was only the next day, after my wife
had gone to lie down, and I sat keeping watch by it, that I remembered
the condition of its parents, and thought, I can't tell with what a pang,
that I had not money left to bury the little thing, and wept bitter tears
of despair. Now, at last, I thought I must apply to my poor mother, for
this was a sacred necessity; and I took paper, and wrote her a letter at
the baby's side, and told her of our condition. But, thank Heaven! I
never sent the letter; for as I went to the desk to get sealing-wax and
seal that dismal letter, my eyes fell upon the diamond pin that I had
quite forgotten, and that was lying in the drawer of the desk.

I looked into the bedroom,--my poor wife was asleep; she had been
watching for three nights and days, and had fallen asleep from sheer
fatigue; and I ran out to a pawnbroke