Materialists will say the child had been told of the beauties of another world, and at the last moment memory and reason returned, and the beauties which had been depicted, were suddenly recalled to mind.  But in this instance the child was too young to have been told pleasing stories; and the mind could not have created for itself a vision.  Then what was it?  At the moment of dissolution the soul had flitted through the gates of the eternal city.

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A study in sombre tints: 

In one of the large cities in the wretched portion where men, women and children hive together, there lived—­or existed—­a little boy, so small, so insignificant, that the people with whom he came in contact would scarcely have considered him worthy of mention.  He was a wee specimen of humanity with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and people who stopped to notice him at all, saw something so strange, so pathetic in the childish look, that they involuntarily turned to look again.  He spent the days selling matches; the nights he spent as he could, in empty boxes, on bundles of straw, in miserable alleys, anywhere, where night overtook him.  There was no one to make enquiries, for he was alone, alone in the great city, alone in the world.  One stormy night a woman found her way to one of the wretched tenement houses, bearing in her arms a tiny burden.  One of the inhabitants, more kindly than the rest, took her in, gave her the only bed they had, a pallet of straw, on which she lay for a few days, making no complaint, giving little trouble.  The women saw at a glance that she was a different order of being from themselves, that she belonged to another world than theirs.  But by what chance had she wandered there?  Questions were asked but no answers returned.  She simply asked to be left alone.  In a short time she died, leaving behind the little bundle of humanity, bequeathing to him nothing but her own sensitive nature, the same blue eyes and flaxen hair, and the name “Ned,” nothing more.  They buried her in the potter’s field, and a life’s tragedy was ended.  Little Ned lived among them, getting more blows than kind words, nearly always hungry, but never complaining.  If they gave him food he ate it; if he got none, he never murmured.  The rough women, involuntarily, lowered their voices when little Ned was present, for there was something they could never comprehend about the strange child.  They felt he was with them but not of them.  He was unlike the children in the street, never seeking, but shunning their society.  After a time he was old enough to go on the street and sell matches, and it was a relief to the women when he was gone, for then there was no restraint, and the little lonely waif was turned adrift.  Little Ned seemed never quite alone, for he frequently talked alone, asked questions which seemed to have been answered—­in fact lived in a world, peopled by his own childish fancy, and passed unharmed