eet you here, before he
takes me to be an angel in heaven. I am ready now, for I said good-by
to mother and Jamie, and all, long ago. I only waited for you, dear
Mary. Kiss me, won't you--kiss me again, and call mother--I feel very
strangely."

Her mother bent over her, but she was not recognized; her father took
one of those emaciated hands within his own, but it was cold, and gave
back no pressure. Awe fell upon every heart in that hushed and
stricken group; there was no struggle with the dark angel, for the
silver chord was gently loosened. The calm gaze of those radiant eyes
grew fixed, unchangeable--a faint flutter, and the heart's quick
pulsations forever ceased--wings had been given that balmy eve to a
pure and guileless spirit.

Mary calmly laid the little form back upon the pillow. Her mother's
hand closed the already drooping lids; a sweet smile stole gently
round the mouth, and its radiance dwelt upon the marble forehead.

"It is well with the child," said the bereaved parent--and her husband
bending beside the bed of death, prayed fervently, while the sobs of
his remaining children fell upon his ears, that they might be also
ready.

"Oh, mother, how can I bear this! how can you be so calm and
resigned!" said Mary, as her mother sat down beside her in the
twilight, and spoke of the sorrowful illness of their faded flower. "I
had planned so much for Susie; I thought as much of her as of myself,
and here are the books, and all these things that I thought would make
her so happy; she did not even see them. Why was she taken away, so
good, so loving as she always was?"

"And would you wish her back again, my child; has she not more cause
to mourn for us, than we for her? Think--she has passed through the
greatest suffering that mortal may know; she has entered upon a world
the glory of which it 'hath not entered into the heart of man to
conceive of;' and would you recall her to this scene of trial and
temptation? Rather pray, dear Mary, that we may meet her again in her
bright and glorious home. I, her mother, though mourning for my own
loneliness and bereavement, thank God that my child is at rest."

"If I could only feel as you do, mother; but I cannot. Poor Susie!"
and Mary's tears burst forth afresh.

She begged to be allowed to watch through the night beside the form of
the lost one, even though she knew the spirit had departed. But her
mother would not allow this--some young friends whom Mary could