“Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “she’s beautiful” (she had never said that before of her or of any of her children), “beautiful,—and she’s home. Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” Bell tried to speak. She got the length of faltering out, “For ever with the Lord,” when Mrs. Barrie stooped down to kiss her “lost lamb.” Bell rather quickly folded the face-cloth over the mouth, saying, “On the cheek or the broo, mem, no’ on the mooth.” Although Mrs. Barrie’s frame shook as her lips touched the cold brow, she pressed them on it lingeringly, and as she raised herself she said, “I will go to her, she cannot return to me.” Then, looking round the room, she said, “Bell, O Bell! I can never repay, and I will never forget, your kindness at this time.” She would have said more, but Bell broke down, and Mrs. Barrie broke down, and both were considerably better when the pent-up flood of sorrow found relief.
In the churchyard of Blinkbonny stands a little marble slab, only a few inches above the ground bearing the following inscription:—
HELEN BARRIE
DIED 18TH MAY 1838, AGED 3 YEARS.
——
WITH CHRIST ... FAR BETTER.
“THE BUTTERFLY ON A GRAVE.”
The spot had no more constant visitor than Bell. The flowers that in their seasons grew round it were planted by her hand, and tended by her with constant care; the only difference being that in weeding or trimming it there was not the quick, bustling energy which she exercised in the garden, but a reverent slowness unusual for her. She never put her foot on the sod under which Nellie lay; and although for the first few visits she sighed mournfully as she read the inscription (and she read it aloud to herself at every visit), it was not long before her face lightened as she uttered the last two words, and she would add in a cheerful confirmatory tone, as if Nellie herself had repeated the epitaph, “Yes, Nellie; yes, Bell’s bairn, far better; far, far better.”
“A butterfly bask’d on a baby’s grave,