death-angel, girt as a pilgrim, for journey, and softly crowned with flowers, beckons at the dying mother’s door; child-angels sit talking face to face with mortal children, among the flowers;—­ hold them by their little coats, lest they fall on the stairs; whisper dreams of heaven to them, leaning over their pillows; carry the sound of the church bells for them far through the air; and even descending lower in service, fill little cups with honey, to hold out to the weary bee.  By the way, Lily, did you tell the other children that story about your little sister, and Alice, and the sea?

Lily.  I told it to Alice, and to Miss Dora.  I don’t think I did to anybody else.  I thought it wasn’t worth.

L. We shall think it worth a great deal now, Lily, if you will tell it us.  How old is Dotty, again?  I forgot.

Lily.  She is not quite three; but she has such odd little old ways, sometimes.

L. And she was very fond of Alice?

Lily.  Yes; Alice was so good to her always!

L. And so when Alice went away?

Lily.  Oh, it was nothing, you know, to tell about; only it was strange at the time.

L. Well; but I want you to tell it.

Lily.  The morning after Alice had gone, Dotty was very sad and restless when she got up; and went about, looking into all the corners, as if she could find Alice in them, and at last she came to me, and said, “Is Alie gone over the great sea?” And I said, “Yes, she is gone over the great, deep sea, but she will come back again some day.”  Then Dotty looked round the room; and I had just poured some water out into the basin; and Dotty ran to it, and got up on a chair, and dashed her hands through the water, again and again; and cried, “Oh, deep, deep sea! send little Alie back to me.”

L. Isn’t that pretty, children?  There’s a dear little heathen for you!  The whole heart of Greek mythology is in that; the idea of a personal being in the elemental power;—­of its being moved by prayer;—­and of its presence everywhere, making the broken diffusion of the element sacred.

Now, remember, the measure in which we may permit ourselves to think of this trusted and adored personality, in Greek, or in any other, mythology, as conceivably a shadow of truth, will depend on the degree in which we hold the Greeks, or other great nations, equal, or inferior, in privilege and character, to the Jews, or to ourselves.  If we believe that the great Father would use the imagination of the Jew as an instrument by which to exalt and lead him; but the imagination of the Greek only to degrade and mislead him:  if we can suppose that real angels were sent to minister to the Jews and to punish them; but no angels, or only mocking spectra of angels, or even devils in the shapes of angels, to lead Lycurgus and Leonidas from desolate cradle to hopeless grave:—­and if we can think that it was only the influence of specters,