aths and light jests, which even the gentry condescended to indulge in
(as they did in other things better left to their inferiors), were
banished from all society, even that of travelling tinkers, time out of
mind a coarse set of fellows. Feuds handed down from father to son were
dropped at once, and old enemies met with kind greetings, and parted
friends. Every body seemed to prosper, and nobody was the worse for it.
Beggars began to lay aside their tatters, and wear good substantial
garments. There was no longer any need to beg, for work was plentiful.
Cottage windows, once stuffed with old hats, rejoiced in the possession
of new panes of glass; and new cottages were being builded every where,
and every body declared it was the work of the White Lamb.

Spring melted into summer, and summer was now on the verge of autumn.
The fields were full of harvesters, reaping and binding up yellow
sheaves, and barns were open all day, and boys might be seen within,
storing up fruit for the winter. Every day added some new grace to the
child; but those who were experienced in such matters, mostly mothers
who had lost children, said she was dying. Her bloom was too unearthly,
her eye too spiritual to last. She was no longer able to run to the
woods and fields: a walk to the little summer house at the end of the
vicar's garden, only a stone's throw from the door, was sufficient to
make her very weary. Nor could she visit the chapel unless carried
thither, which was a source of great grief to all the villagers.

Day by day she grew more lovely and feeble; and the lamb grew more fond
of her: they could not for a moment separate them. It clung to her days
as she sat in her little chair leaning on pillows; and nights it crept
to her feet as she lay upon her couch dreaming of the angels. Its white
fleece seemed to grow more white, and its eyes more tender and
beautiful. And it often looked at the fading child, and at the far blue
sky, shining through the lattice, and its glance seemed to say--Heaven
is waiting for this little slip of earth, and it must soon go.

Autumn came at last, and the child was dying. It was morning, and she
lay on her couch, with half the village around her. Her eyes were fixed
upon the sky, and her arms were entwined about the lamb, who lay with
its head in her bosom. The vicar knelt down, and prayed. He could not
bear to lose the light of his household, though he knew that the angels
were waiting for her on th