"'I think, when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,
How he called little children as lambs to his fold,—
I should like to have been with them then.'"
"That's nice,—so nice," said little Rosie, smiling. "Now I'll go to sleep, mamma."
Next day her little head was worse. Flaxie had begged Aunt Jane to take her all her pretty playthings; but the sick child did not care for them now. There were Flaxie's wee chairs and sofas and pictures to furnish her baby-house, and dishes to set her baby-table. Rosie did not like them now; but she knew she had liked them when she was well.
"Mamma," said she, "shall I have playfings up in heaven?"
"Yes, dear: prettier ones than these."
"O, I am so glad. And, mamma, must I take my best dresses when I go up?—my blue one with the pretty wuffles, you know, and my little pink beauty dress?"
"No, darling: God will give you nicer clothes than those to wear."
"Will he, mamma? O, that's very nice."
She lay quite still for a long time, and then called her mother to her bedside.
"Mamma, you 'member that sweet story you sung to me 'bout Jesus?"