“See, my children,” he said, “what becomes of all the wisdom, riches, and beauty of man, when his crumbling ashes unite with their parent dust, and all distinctions of rank and excellence are lost in that one common lot—the grave. Oh! then, may we never live as though this world were our home, instead of what it is designed to be, a preparation for a better, a more enduring inheritance!”
“Look, dear mamma,” said Edward, “there is the new-made grave of a little child.”
“Yes, my love,” said Mrs. Ashton, “I believe I need not tell you what that should teach us.”
Edward pressed his mother’s hand, in token of assent.
“Aunt,” said Helen, “I learned some pretty lines of poetry, the other day, which were inscribed on an infant’s tomb.”
“Will you repeat them, my love?” asked Mrs. Ashton.
Helen did so.
“A little spirit slumbers here,
Who to one heart was very dear;
Oh! he was more than life or light;