wn;
The little boy I used to kiss is dead."

My sisters, God would have you who are mothers to be nursing mothers
for Heaven, your nursery, your home, the school of Christ. Let every
mother here take to heart the story of Monica and Augustine. You know
that the future Bishop and famous preacher was as a young man given up
to all kinds of vicious courses, and refused to embrace the faith of
his mother, a devoted Christian. His dissipation and impiety were a
constant source of sorrow to the gentle Monica, who never ceased to
pray for him. When Augustine was a student at Carthage, drinking
deeply of the beautiful poisoned chalice of heathen literature, the
mother's letters to her son were full of the sweet lessons of
Christianity. Still Augustine persevered in the old evil way, and when
he gained fame as a teacher he still disregarded the words of Monica
She prayed on, but almost in despair. One night she dreamed than an
angel appeared to her, and promised that where she was there her
beloved Augustine should be. She told the vision to her son, who made
light of it, saying, that if it meant anything, it was that she should
adopt his faith. "Nay," said his mother, "it was not said to me,
'Where he is you shall be,' but, 'Where _you_ are he shall be.'" Still
the years went on, and there was no change in Augustine. Monica
consulted a great Christian Bishop, who bade her persevere, since it
was impossible that the child of so many tears and prayers should
perish. After a while Augustine journeyed to Rome, his mother's
prayers going with him. There he heard S. Ambrose preach, and his
heart was touched. There was a hard struggle between the old life and
the new for a time, and Monica was with Augustine in his conflict. At
last she saw of the travail of her soul, and was satisfied. O mothers,
pray as Monica prayed for Augustine, if you would have your children
grow up as God's children set them a strong example, and pray without
ceasing.

There is, in a certain country Churchyard, a grave-stone with this
epitaph--"He loved little children." Few of us could wish for a
better. Sometimes a whole life is written in one sentence, it was so,
no doubt, in this case. There is not, to my mind, among all the
epitaphs in S. Paul's Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, telling the
praises of soldiers, heroes, statesmen, anyone to compare with the
simple sentence--"He loved little children." Now, brethren, if we love
litt