Now I will lead you to her dying pillow Many friends were around her.  No one had told her that she was dying; yet she herself felt conscious of it.  She wished to have the window raised, that she might see the ocean and trees once more.  “Oh!” said her mother, bending over her, “is my dear little girl dying?” “I want to go,” said Mary Ellen; “I want my father and mother to go with me.”  “Will you not stay with us?” said the stricken father; “will you not stay with us?” She raised her little hands and eyes—­“Oh no,” said she; “I see them!  I see them! ’t is lighter there; I want to go; get a coffin and go with me, father.  ’T is lighter there!” She died soon after she ceased speaking.  Her pure spirit winged its way to the blest home where we shall all have more light, where the mortal shall put on immortality.

She died when flowers were fading; fit season for one of so gentle and pure a nature to depart.

   “In the cold, moist earth they laid her
     When the forest cast the leaf,
   And we wept that one so beautiful
     Should have a life so brief. 
   And yet ’t was not unmeet that one,
     Like that young friend of ours,
   So gentle and so beautiful,
     Should perish with the flowers.”

But Oh! when that little form was laid in the cold grave,—­when the childless parents returned to their lonely home, once made so happy by the smile of their departed child,—­Oh! who can express or describe their anguish!  In her they had all they could ask in a child; she was their only one.  Everything speaks to their hearts of her; but her light step and happy voice fall not upon their ears; to them the flowers that she loved have a mournful language.  The voice of the wind sighing in the trees has to them a melancholy tone.  The light laugh of little children, coming in at the open window,—­the singing of birds which she delighted to hear,—­but speak to their hearts of utter loneliness.  They feel that the little form they had nursed with so much care and tenderness, so often pressed to their bosoms, is laid beneath the sod.  Yet the sweet consolation which religion affords, cheered and sustained the afflicted parents in their hours of deepest sorrow.  They would not call their child back.  They feel that she has reached her heavenly home.  Happy must they have been in yielding up to its Maker a spirit so pure.

Two years Mary Ellen has been sleeping in the little grave-yard.  Since then another little daughter has been given her parents,—­a promising little bud, that came with the spring flowers, to bless and cheer the home which was made so desolate.  The best wish I have for the parents, and all I ask for the child, is, that it may be like little Mary Ellen.  I have an earnest wish, too that all little children who read this sketch may be led to love and obey God as much as Mary Ellen.

[Illustration]

THE DEAD CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.