C. Don’t cry, don’t cry! dear mother; you did not cry when I came in—I will leave off crying if you will, mother.
M. Look at her little pale face, Charles;—why are you unwilling to look at her?
C. I do not know. Will you take her off the bed? are you afraid to hold her in your arms?
M. O, no; I have held her a great while to-night, Charles, and she died in my lap.
C. And were you all alone?
M. No, there were two or three people with me then, and they were very kind; but I sent them all away at last.
C. Why, mother?
M. Because sometimes I wanted to cry, and sometimes to pray, and I liked better to be alone. I was praying when you came in, Charles.
C. Mother, I prayed yesterday about Susan, but God did not mind it. What makes you pray now that she is dead?
M. I was praying that I might remember how happy little Susan’s soul is, and that I might not be so wicked as to complain because God had taken her away again; and that I might be a better woman now, and think more of heaven.