The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dewdrop on the rose.
—Scott.
256
THE CHILD AND THE "RISING DAY"
The following is a true narrative of an experience in life:
It was nearing three o'clock of last Easter afternoon, when a woman, clad in deepest mourning, entered the gates of the beautiful "sleeping place" on Walnut Hill. Her attitude, as she sank upon a carefully tended mound, denoted deep dejection. She had not yet learned that the "tree of death is fruited with the love of God," neither the joy of the "afterward," but knew only the grope of a stricken soul.
In the distance, sat a child upon a grave, alone. Coming nearer, she recognized him as one who had never known a mother, and whose father had lately been taken, leaving him without kindred. The love between that father and child had been passing sweet.
The bereaved lady knew this, and that he had been thrown homeless upon the world. Yet, absorbed in her own grief, had given him little thought. Drawing near, she observed closely the rare beauty of the boy, scarcely five years of age, genius and nobility stamped on his brow, and exquisite tenderness on the mobile lips.
He looked up eagerly, asking fearlessly, "Is your name Mary? Are you the woman who talked with the angel when the stone was rolled away."
"Oh, no, dear," she replied. "Whom are you looking for?"