nd gentle spirit ascended to
that world where thousands of holy children and the blessed company of
angels and our blessed Lord Jesus, I doubt not, joyfully welcomed him.
Now we were able to say, _It is well with the child!_

"Oh," said the gardener, as he passed down the garden-walk, "who plucked
that flower? Who gathered that plant?" His fellow-servants answered,
"The MASTER!" And the gardener held his peace.

The feelings of the mother's heart on Friday found vent in some lines
entitled _To My Dying Eddy; January 16th_. Here are two stanzas:

Blest child! dear child! For thee is Jesus calling;
And of our household thee--and only thee!
Oh, hasten hence! to His embraces hasten!
Sweet shall thy rest and safe thy shelter be.

Thou who unguarded ne'er hast left our threshold,
Alone must venture now an unknown way;
Yet, fear not! Footprints of an Infant Holy
Lie on thy path. Thou canst not go astray.

In a letter to her friend Mrs. Allen, of New Bedford, dated January 28,
she writes:

During our dear little Eddy's illness we were surrounded with kind
friends, and many prayers were offered for us and for him. Nothing that
could alleviate our affliction was left undone or unthought of, and we
feel that it would be most unchristian and ungrateful in us to even
wonder at that Divine will which has bereaved us of our only boy--the
light and sunshine of our household. We miss him _sadly_. I need not
explain to you, who know all about it, _how_ sadly; but we rejoice that
he has got away from this troublous life, and that we have had the
privilege of giving so dear a child to God. When he was well he was one
of the happiest creatures I ever saw, and I am sure he is well now,
and that he is as happy as his joyous nature makes him susceptible of
becoming. God has been most merciful to us in this affliction, and, if
a bereaved, we are still a _happy_ household and full of thanksgiving.
Give my love to both the children and tell them they must not forget
us, and when they think and talk of their dear brother and sisters in
heaven, they must sometimes think of the little Eddy who is there too.

* * * * *

II.

Birth of her Third Child. Reminiscence of a Sabbath-Evening Talk. Story
of the Baby's Sudden Illness and Death. Summer of 1852. Lines entitled
"My Nursery."

The shock of Eddy's death proved almost too much for Mrs. Prentiss'
enfeebled frame. She bore it, however, wit