sounds which two doors could not shut out. As she left the room
she met Dr. B. and they went to the nursery together. She soon came
back, quiet and composed, but very sorrowful. "Yes, she is dying," said
she, "the doctor says so; she will not live an hour." ... At last we
heard the sound of George's key. Louise ran to call him. I crawled once
more to the nursery, and snatched my baby in fierce triumph from the
nurse. At least once I would hold my child, and nobody should prevent
me. George, pale as death, baptized her as I held her in my trembling
arms; there were a few more of those terrible, never-to-be-forgotten
sounds, and at seven o'clock we were once more left with only one child.
A short, sharp conflict, and our baby was gone.

Dr. B. came in later and said the whole thing was to him like a
thunderclap--as it was to her poor father. To me it followed closely on
the presentiment that in some measure prepared me for it. Here I sit
with empty hands. I have had the little coffin in my arms, but my baby's
face could not be seen, so rudely had death marred it. Empty hands,
empty hands, a worn-out, exhausted body, and unutterable longings to
flee from a world that has had for me so many sharp experiences. God
help me, my baby, my baby! God help me, my little lost Eddy!

But although the death of these two children tore with anguish the
mother's heart, she made no show of grief, and to the eye of the world
her life soon appeared to move on as aforetime. Never again, however,
was it exactly the same life. She had entered into the fellowship of
Christ's sufferings, and the new experience wrought a great change in
her whole being.

A part of the summer and the early autumn of 1852 were passed among
kind friends at Newport, in Portland, and at the Ocean House on Cape
Elizabeth. She returned much refreshed, and gave herself up cheerfully
to her accustomed duties. But a cloud rested still upon her home, and at
times the old grief came back again with renewed poignancy. Here are a
few lines expressive of her feelings. They were written in pencil on a
little scrap of paper:

MY NURSERY. 1852.

I thought that prattling boys and girls
Would fill this empty room;
That my rich heart would gather flowers
From childhood's opening bloom.

One child and two green graves are mine,
This is God's gift to me;
A bleeding, fainting, broken heart--
This is my gift to Thee.

* * * * *