Mother, we read to-day, you know,
Where holy Scriptures tell
That Jesus, when he lived below,
Loved little children well.
And then you told me how his word,
From the bad spirit's power,
Freed him, who never spoke, nor heard,
Until that blessed hour.
Beside the ruler's lifeless child,
In pitying tone he spoke,
"The maiden sleeps"—though scorners smiled,
She heard his voice, and woke.
And now, you say, above the sky
Unchanged, he loves us still;
Then why did he let baby die,
And why am I so ill?—
MOTHER.
When Mary walk'd with mother last,
She saw a little flower,
Drooping its head and fading fast
Within her garden bower.
To a more sunny spot removed,
That flower blooms fair and bright;
Our drooping baby Jesus loved,
And bore from earthly blight.
And though, my child, I cannot tell
Why yet he leaves you ill,
As I am sure he loves you well,
I doubt not that he will,
At the best time, heal every pain,
And make my Mary well again.
The letter which I had told Mrs. Scott I wished to send off that afternoon was to Harriet's grandfather, to whom I intended writing about Alice; for he was a very kind, good man, and was always glad to be told of those who wanted, when he had any thing to give. He had promised to make us a visit soon, but I did not know that it would be so soon as this week. However, about an hour after I had gone home, when I had written, and just as I was folding my letter, a carriage drove to the door, and he alighted from it. As I knew he would stay with us two or three days I was in no hurry to speak of Alice, preferring to wait till Harriet came home in the evening, and see whether she would think of interesting her grandfather in her little friend. He had been with me about two hours when I sent for her, and he told the servant who went that she need not mention his coming, for he thought it would be very pleasant to see Harriet's first joy at meeting him, when she so little expected to see him.
As Harriet came back with the servant, we could now and then catch a glimpse of her white dress through an opening of the wood, and while she was still too far off to distinguish the faces of persons sitting in the parlor, her grandfather moved away from the window, so that she might not see him till she was quite in the parlor. She came up the steps and through the porch and to the parlor door very quietly and rather slowly, as if she was almost sorry to come in; but the moment she saw her grandfather, she threw down the flowers she had been picking, and springing towards him, was in his lap before he could even rise from his chair to meet her, crying out, "Oh grandpapa! I am so glad to see you—so very, very glad—more glad than I ever was in my life before."