"De little missis, she k'yarn lars' long. She on de way to de bosom o' de Lamb, w'har tecks keer o' little chillen," he said, solemnly.
George understood only too well. He went up stairs to the nursery. The child, white and scarcely breathing, her yellow curls damp on her forehead, lay in her black mammy's arms. The father and mother, clasped in each other's arms, watched with agonized eyes as the little life ebbed away. The old mammy was singing softly a negro hymn as she gently rocked the dying child:
"'De little lambs in Jesus' breas'
He hol' 'em d'yar and giv' 'em res';
He teck 'em by dee little hands,
An' lead 'em th'u' de pleasant lands.'"
As George stood by her, with tears running down his face, the old mammy spoke to the child. "Honey," said she, "heah Marse George. Doan' you know Marse George, dat use ter ride you on he shoulder, an' make de funny little rabbits on de wall by candle-light?"
The child opened her eyes, and a look of recognition came into them. George knelt down by her. She tried to put her little arms around his neck, and he gently placed them there. The mother and father knelt by her too.
"My darling," said the mother, trembling, "don't you know papa and mamma too?"
The little girl smiled, and whispered, "Yes—papa and mamma and Uncle George and my own dear mammy."
The next moment her eyes closed. Presently George asked, brokenly,
"Is she asleep?"
"Yes," calmly answered the devoted old black woman, straightening out the little body, "she 'sleep heah, but she gwi' wake up in heaben, wid her little han' in Jesus Chris's; an' He goin' teck keer of her twell we all gits d'yar. An' po' ole black mammy will see her honey chile oncet mo'."