THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE故事

　　 IT was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt

　　 the deepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years

　　 old, the joy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters,

　　 the elder of whom was going to be confirmed, still remained:

　　 they were both good, charming girls; but the lost child always

　　 seems the dearest; and when it is youngest, and a son, it

　　 makes the trial still more heavy. The sisters mourned as young

　　 hearts can mourn, and were especially grieved at the sight of

　　 their parents' sorrow. The father's heart was bowed down, but

　　 the mother sunk completely under the deep grief. Day and night

　　 she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying it in

　　 her bosom, as a part of herself. She could not realize the

　　 fact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin to

　　 rest in the ground. She thought God could not take her darling

　　 little one from her; and when it did happen notwithstanding

　　 her hopes and her belief, and there could be no more doubt on

　　 the subject, she said in her feverish agony, "God does not

　　 know it. He has hard-hearted ministering spirits on earth, who

　　 do according to their own will, and heed not a mother's

　　 prayers." Thus in her great grief she fell away from her faith

　　 in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind respecting death

　　 and a future state. She tried to believe that man was but

　　 dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these

　　 doubts were no support to her, nothing on which she could

　　 rest, and she sunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In

　　 her darkest hours she ceased to weep, and thought not of the

　　 young daughters who were still left to her. The tears of her

　　 husband fell on her forehead, but she took no notice of him;

　　 her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole existence

　　 seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of the little one and of

　　 every innocent word it had uttered.

　　 The day of the little child's funeral came. For nights

　　 previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning

　　 twilight of this day she sunk from weariness into a deep

　　 sleep; in the mean time the coffin was carried into a distant

　　 room, and there nailed down, that she might not hear the blows

　　 of the hammer. When she awoke, and wanted to see her child,

　　 the husband, with tears, said, "We have closed the coffin; it

　　 was necessary to do so."

　　 "When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be

　　 better?" she said with groans and tears.

　　 The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate

　　 mother sat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but

　　 she saw them not; for her thoughts were far away from the

　　 domestic hearth. She gave herself up to her grief, and it

　　 tossed her to and fro, as the sea tosses a ship without

　　 compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral passed away, and

　　 similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain. With tearful

　　 eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and the

　　 afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their

　　 words of comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could

　　 they speak, when they were themselves so full of grief? It

　　 seemed as if she would never again know sleep, and yet it

　　 would have been her best friend, one who would have

　　 strengthened her body and poured peace into her soul. They at

　　 last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would lie as

　　 still as if she slept.

　　 One night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to

　　 her breathing, he quite believed that she had at length found

　　 rest and relief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and

　　 soon sunk himself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not

　　 notice that his wife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided

　　 silentl

　　y from the house, to go where her thoughts constantly

　　 lingered- to the grave of her child. She passed through the

　　 garden, to a path across a field that led to the churchyard.

　　 No one saw her as she walked, nor did she see any one; for her

　　 eyes were fixed upon the one object of her wanderings. It was

　　 a lovely starlight night in the beginning of September, and

　　 the air was mild and still. She entered the churchyard, and

　　 stood by the little grave, which looked like a large nosegay

　　 of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over

　　 the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth

　　 that covered him- her little boy, whose smile was so vividly

　　 before her, and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on

　　 his sick-bed, she could not forget. How full of meaning that

　　 glance had been, as she leaned over him, holding in hers the

　　 pale hand which he had no longer strength to raise! As she had

　　 sat by his little cot, so now she sat by his grave; and here

　　 she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon it.

　　 "Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said

　　 a voice quite close to her,- a voice that sounded so deep and

　　 clear, that it went to her heart.

　　 She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a

　　 black cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her

　　 keen glance could distinguish the face under the hood. It was

　　 stern, yet awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with

　　 youthful radiance.

　　 "Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and

　　 entreaty sounded in the words.

　　 "Darest thou to follow me?" asked the form. "I am Death."

　　 She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it

　　 appeared as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of

　　 the full moon on the many-colored flowers that decked the

　　 grave. The earth that covered it was drawn back like a

　　 floating drapery. She sunk down, and the spectre covered her

　　 with a black cloak; night closed around her, the night of

　　 death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could

　　 penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then

　　 the cloak was removed, and she found herself in a large hall,

　　 of wide-spreading dimensions, in which there was a subdued

　　 light, like twilight, reigning, and in a moment her child

　　 appeared before her, smiling, and more beautiful than ever;

　　 with a silent cry she pressed him to her heart. A glorious

　　 strain of music sounded- now distant, now near. Never had she

　　 listened to such tones as these; they came from beyond a large

　　 dark curtain which separated the regions of death from the

　　 land of eternity.

　　 "My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It

　　 was the well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in

　　 boundless delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain.

　　 "There is nothing so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother,

　　 do you not see them all? Oh, it is happiness indeed."

　　 But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out,

　　 only the dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could

　　 not see as the child saw,- he whom God has called to be with

　　 Himself. She could hear the sounds of music, but she heard not

　　 the words, the Word in which she was to trust.

　　 "I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with

　　 other happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I

　　 would fain fly away now; but if you weep for me as you are

　　 weeping now, you may never see me again. And yet I would go so

　　 gladly. May I not fly away? And you will come to me soon, will

　　 you not, dear mother?"

　　 "Oh, stay, stay!" implored the mother; "only one moment

　　 more; only once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss

　　 thee, and press thee to my heart."

　　Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name

　　 was called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in

　　 a plaintive voice.

　　 "Hearest thou?" said the child. "It is my father who calls

　　 thee." And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of

　　 children weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child.

　　 "Mother, surely you have not forgotten them."

　　 And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great

　　 terror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night.

　　 Dim forms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as

　　 they floated through the regions of death towards the dark

　　 curtain, where they vanished. Would her husband and her

　　 daughters flit past? No; their sighs and lamentations still

　　 sounded from above; and she had nearly forgotten them, for the

　　 sake of him who was dead.

　　 "Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing," said the

　　 child; "mother, the sun is going to rise."

　　 An overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had

　　 vanished, and she was being borne upwards. All around her

　　 became cold; she lifted her head, and saw that she was lying

　　 in the churchyard, on the grave of her child. The Lord, in a

　　 dream, had been a guide to her feet and a light to her spirit.

　　 She bowed her knees, and prayed for forgiveness. She had

　　 wished to keep back a soul from its immortal flight; she had

　　 forgotten her duties towards the living who were left her. And

　　 when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt lighter. The

　　 sun burst forth, over her head a little bird carolled his

　　 song, and the church-bells sounded for the early service.

　　 Everything around her seemed holy, and her heart was

　　 chastened. She acknowledged the goodness of God, she

　　 acknowledged the duties she had to perform, and eagerly she

　　 returned home. She bent over her husband, who still slept; her

　　 warm, devoted kiss awakened him, and words of heartfelt love

　　 fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle and strong as a

　　 wife can be; and from her lips came the words of faith:

　　 "Whatever He doeth is right and best."

　　 Then her husband asked, "From whence hast thou all at once

　　 derived such strength and comforting faith?"

　　 And as she kissed him and her children, she said, "It came

　　 from God, through my child in the grave."

　　 THE END