plifted a silvery
strain that sounded like the very spirit of the whole, even like
angelic harmony blent with a mortal song. But sleeping, still more
sweetly sang the "Holy Child;" and then, too, in some diviner
inspiration than ever was granted to it while awake, her soul composed
its own hymns, and set the simple scriptural words to its own mysterious
music--the tunes she loved best gliding into one another, without once
ever marring the melody, with pathetic touches interposed never heard
before, and never more to be renewed! For each dream had its own
breathing, and many-visioned did then seem to be the sinless creature's
sleep.

The love that was borne for her all over the hill-region, and beyond its
circling clouds, was almost such as mortal creatures might be thought to
feel for some existence that had visibly come from heaven. Yet all who
looked on her, saw that she, like themselves, was mortal, and many an
eye was wet, the heart wist not why, to hear such wisdom falling from
such lips; for dimly did it prognosticate, that as short as bright would
be her walk from the cradle to the grave. And thus for the "Holy Child"
was their love elevated by awe, and saddened by pity--and as by herself
she passed pensively by their dwellings, the same eyes that smiled on
her presence, on her disappearance wept.

Not in vain for others--and for herself, oh! what great gain!--for those
few years on earth did that pure spirit ponder on the word of God! Other
children became pious from their delight in her piety--for she was
simple as the simplest among them all, and walked with them hand in
hand, nor declined companionship with any one that was good. But all
grew good by being with her--and parents had but to whisper her name,
and in a moment the passionate sob was hushed--the lowering brow
lighted--and the household in peace. Older hearts owned the power of the
piety so far surpassing their thoughts; and time-hardened sinners, it is
said, when looking and listening to the "Holy Child," knew the error of
their ways, and returned to the right path as at a voice from heaven.

Bright was her seventh summer--the brightest, so the aged said, that had
ever, in man's memory, shone over Scotland. One long, still, sunny, blue
day followed another, and in the rainless weather, though the dews kept
green the hills, the song of the streams was low. But paler and paler,
in sunlight and moonlight, became the sweet face that had been always