“My beloved child, you see that I am so very sick that soon I must die and leave you and your father alone.  Promise me that when I am gone, every morning when you get up and every night when you go to bed, you will look into the mirror which your father gave me long ago.  In it, you will see me smiling back at you, and you will know that I am ever near to protect you.”

Having spoken these words, she pointed to the place where the mirror was hidden, and the girl, with tears on her cheeks, promised to do as her mother wished.  Tranquil and resigned, the mother then passed quickly away.

The dutiful daughter, never forgetting her mother’s wishes, each morning and evening took the glass from the place where it was hidden and gazed at it intently for a long time.  There she saw the face of her dead mother brilliant and smiling, not pallid and ill as it was in her last days, but young and beautiful.  To this vision each night she confided the troubles and little faults of the day, looking to it for help and encouragement in doing her duty.  In this manner the girl grew up as if watched over and helped by a living presence, trying always to do nothing that could grieve or annoy her sainted mother.  Her greatest pleasure was to look into the mirror and feel that she could truthfully say:  “Mother, to-day I have been as you wished that I should be.”

After a time the father observed that his daughter looked lovingly into the mirror every morning and every evening, and appeared to converse with it.  Wondering, he asked her the cause of her strange behavior.  The girl replied: 

“Father, I look every day into the glass to see my dear mother and to speak with her.”

She then related to him the last wishes of her dying mother, and assured him that she had never failed to comply with them.

Wondering at such simplicity and loving obedience, the father shed tears of pity and affection.  Nor did he ever find the heart to explain to the loving daughter that the image she saw in the mirror was but the reflection of her own beautiful face.  Thus, by the pure white bond of her filial love, each day the charming girl grew more and more like her dead mother.

A CONTRAST

[Illustration:  Yearning love]

Light blue eyes: 
Flaxen hair;
Rosy cheeks—­
Dimples there! 
These are Baby’s.

Pudgy fists;
Ruddy toes;
Kissy lips—­
Mother knows! 
These are Baby’s.

Cooing voice;
Winning smiles;
Pleading arms—­
Wanton wiles! 
These are Baby’s.

Yearning love;
Growing fears;
Grief and worry—­
All the years. 
These are Mother’s.

THE GOLDEN TOUCH

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

Once upon a time there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew or have entirely forgotten.  So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold.