"Oh, missus!" said he, "we'se all got to pray for dat."
I left Frank walking the room, and went up stairs where mother was dressing Pauline. Ann I found sitting on a trunk in her chamber, with her head upon the bed, weeping bitterly.
"My good Ann," I said, "will you come in and stay by the side of the crib while we are below?" I tried to compose myself, but broke down again.
"I can't, oh, I can't!" she cried, "don't ask me. I can't see him yet." Finding her in such a condition, I left her, and begged mother to allow me to remain with my boy; but she said, it was my duty to go below to my husband. It was in vain for us to try to eat. Pauline sobbed so violently, that her father was obliged to hold her in his arms to soothe her. I severely blamed myself for saying what I said to the sensitive child.
"My little daughter," said Frank in a most touching tone, "when you say your prayers, do not you ask God to make you a good child, so that you can go to heaven? And then you prayed God last night to make your little brother good, so that he could go; did you not ask this?"
She could hardly speak, but she sobbed out, "I didn't ask God to take him so soon, I wanted us to go together."
Her father could but press her to his heart. How often had we prayed that they might be fitted for heaven; but alas! had not dreamed of such a sudden separation.
Tuesday, March 20th.
Our little one lies buried in a shady knoll at the end of the garden, and there, when I have done with time, I hope to be laid beside him. Many times in the day do we bend our steps to the quiet retreat, and weep over the little grave. Pauline weeps less, and by the deep spiritual light in her eyes, I think she begins to understand something of the glory and purity of that world where her beloved brother has gone.
Our good friends Cæsar, Phebe, Ann, and Ruth, have shared so truly in our grief, that I feel as if they were related to us. Poor Ann is almost unfitted for everything. Whenever she sees his clothes or toys she weeps afresh.