rth. And the Almighty presses the
flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him
best, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the
chorus of bliss."

These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead
child up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream. Then they
passed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played,
and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.

"Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted
there?" asked the angel.

Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked
hand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded
and withered on the trailing branches.

"Poor rose-bush!" said the child, "let us take it with us to
heaven, that it may bloom above in God's garden."

The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the
little one half opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some
beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and
heart's-ease.

"Now we have flowers enough," said the child; but the angel only
nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.

It was night, and quite still in the great town. Here they
remained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in
which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the
houses of people who had removed. There lay fragments of plates,
pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to
see. Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a
broken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of
it. The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a
withered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.

"We will take this with us," said the angel, "I will tell you
why as we fly along."

And as they flew the angel related the history.

"Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy;
he had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he
could just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or
twice, but no more. During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie
on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour. In this spot the
poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and
watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them
before his face. Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew
nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure,