THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

BY MRS. M.H.  ADAMS.

To become a childless mother is indeed one of the most severe afflictions which woman can be called to endure; yet it may be, it is often met with noble, Christian fortitude, with Christian humility and resignation, that soothe the acute pains of the mother’s heart, and carry her thoughts away from earth and above its sorrows; so that we feel that she can and has found a balm, and has still left her consolation and happiness.  But when we see a little child, whose mother God has taken, as fully realizing its bereavement, its loneliness, its absolute misfortune, as a child can do, we feel that to be a motherless child in this unchristian world, is indeed an affliction for which there seldom appears a balm; though we doubt not our Father hath the balm for this as for every other wound.

A young man sat by the corpse of his faithful wife, the mother of all his little babes.  One child was gazing silently and inquiringly at her father, as he held his head weeping and groaning in anguish of spirit.  A tender infant of a few weeks lay asleep in the cradle at his side.  The young man’s mother entered the room, and with tenderness of tone and manner, endeavored to calm his grief; with words of gospel love and faith to comfort him.

“Abby has been to you a kind, faithful and devoted wife, David; an agreeable companion and constant friend.  Before God she was a humble child, and before the world a worthy disciple of Christ.  You doubtless feel all this, and more.  Few can speak evil of her, and very many will sincerely mourn her early death, and sympathize with you in this dreadful hour.  But remember, David, you have, before this, professed trust and belief in the promises and love of God.  Now is the time to make manifest your Christian faith, your hope in God, your belief in the gospel.  Try not to be utterly disconsolate in your loneliness.  God is very near to us, although this heavy cloud of sorrow lies between him and us.”

They were interrupted by the entrance of the oldest child of the departed one, a sensitive, intelligent boy of six or seven years.  Tears were in his eyes as he opened the door, and fell fast into the lap of his father as he tried to speak to him.

“Father,” said he, “I have been down in the sitting-room, trying to read my little books; but I think so much of my dear dead mother, I can’t read; and the tears come into my eyes so fast, that I can’t see the pictures.  I went to rock in my little chair, but I saw my mother’s empty chair, and my little heart aches very much.  It will be very lonesome and sad here, if I don’t see mother anywhere.  And who will take care of this little baby brother?”

No word was spoken by those present, but their tears and sobs told plainly that they too felt how lonely and sad that home would be without the gentle voice and cheerful song of that “dear mother.”  As no one checked him, Willie again spoke, and, as well as he could amid sobs and tears, told the bitterness of his young spirit.