At first Elsie’s sympathy was shown in various little kind offices; sitting for hours beside her aunt’s couch, gently fanning her, handing her a drink of cold water, bringing her sweet-scented flowers, and anticipating every want.  But at last she ventured to speak.

“Dear Aunt Adelaide,” she whispered, “I am so sorry for you.  I wish I knew how to comfort you.”

“Oh, Elsie!” sobbed the mourner, “there is no comfort for me, I have lost my dearest treasure—­my all—­and no one cares.”

“Dear Aunt Adelaide,” replied the child timidly, “it is true I am only a little girl, but I do care very much for your grief; and surely your papa and mamma are very sorry for you.”

Adelaide shook her head mournfully.  “They are more glad than sorry,” she said, bursting into tears.

“Well, dear aunty,” said Elsie softly, “there is One who does feel for you, and who is able to comfort you if you will only go to him.  One who loved you so well that he died to save you.”

“No, no, Elsie! not me!  He cannot care for me!  He cannot love me, or he would never have taken away my Ernest,” she sobbed.

“Dear Aunt Adelaide,” said Elsie’s low, sweet voice, “we cannot always tell what is best for us, and will make us happiest in the end.

“I remember once when I was a very little child, I was walking with mammy in a part of my guardian’s grounds where we seldom went.  I was running on before her, and I found a bush with some most beautiful red berries; they looked delicious, and I hastily gathered some, and was just putting them to my mouth when mammy, seeing what I was about, suddenly sprang forward, snatched them out of my hand, threw them on the ground, and tramped upon them; and then tearing up the bushes treated them in the same manner, while I stood by crying and calling her a naughty, cross mammy, to take my nice berries from me.”

“Well,” asked Adelaide, as the little girl paused in her narrative, “what do you mean by your story?  You haven’t finished it, but, of course, the berries were poisonous.”

“Yes,” said Elsie; “and mammy was wiser than I, and knew that what I so earnestly coveted would do me great injury.”

“And now for the application,” said Adelaide, interrupting her; “you mean that just as mammy was wiser than you, and took your treasure from you in kindness, so God is wise and kind in taking mine from me; but ah!  Elsie, the analogy will not hold good; for my good, wise, kind Ernest could never have harmed me as the poisonous berries would you.  No, no, no, he always did me good!” she cried with a passionate burst of grief.

Elsie waited until she grew calm again, and then said gently, “The Bible says, dear aunty, that God ’does not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men.’  Perhaps he saw that you loved your friend too well, and would never give your heart to Jesus unless he took him away, and so you could only live with him for a little while in this world.  But now he has taken him to heaven, I hope—­for Lora told me Mr. St. Clair was a Christian—­and if you will only come to Jesus and take him for your Saviour, you can look forward to spending a happy eternity there with your friend.