not
greet that night, though she loved them very dearly, claimed the sad
duty. And again, after a year of new and strange life, she found
herself reposing in her own quiet room, with sighing trees, the voice
of the brook, and the low cry of the solitary whippo-wil, to lull her
to sweet sleep.

* * * * *

It was Sabbath morning, calm and holy. The bell of the little village
church tolled sadly and reverentially, as the funeral train wound
through the shaded lane. All the young people for miles around had
gathered in the church-yard; and as the coffin was borne beneath the
trees that waved over its entrance, they joined in the procession. It
passed toward the place of worship, and for the last time the form of
their little friend entered the sacred walls.

The simple coffin was placed in the broad central aisle, the choir
sung a sweet yet mournful dirge; then the voice of music and of
weeping was hushed, for the man of God communed, with faltering voice,
with the Father in heaven, who had seen fit in his mercy to take this
lamb to his bosom; and when the prayer was ended, and an earnest and
impressive address was made to those who had been bereaved, and those
who sympathized with them, the friends and playmates of the little one
clustered about the coffin to take a farewell glance of those lifeless
yet beautiful features.

The pure folds of the snowy shroud were gathered about the throat, and
upon it were crossed the slender hands, in which rested a fading sprig
of white violets, placed there by some friend, as a fit emblem of the
sleeper. Her sunny curls were smoothly bound back beneath the cap, and
its border of transparent lace, threw a slight shadow upon the
deeply-fringed lids that were never more to be stirred. Oh! the
exceeding beauty and holiness of that childish face, in its perfect
repose! None shuddered as they gazed; the horror of death had
departed; but tears came to the eyes of many, as they bent down to
kiss that pure forehead for the last time.

Aye, "the last time!" for the lid was closed as the congregation
passed, one by one, once more into the church-yard, shutting out the
light of day from that still, pale face forever. The mother gazed no
more upon her child--brother and sister must henceforth dwell upon her
loveliness but in memory--the father wept--and man's tears are
scalding drops of agony.

Many lingered until the simple rites were ended, and then turned away
under the