The Story of a Child

other who sang so c

ailing scarcely more than forty-eight hours; but the doctor said that on accoun

a sweet calm voice she begged us to remain near her-it was doubtl

er which I could now read and understand. These works of art had been painted by my father in his early boyhood, and he had presented them to his mother upon each joyful anniversary. The poor, unpretentious little pictures bore testimony to the humble life of those early days, and they spoke of the sacred intimacy of mother and son,-they had been painted during the time which followed those great ordeals, the wars, the English invasion and

nderstand, they kept me away from the room until the day was over; then they took

ned home with my nurse, I insisted upon

the head of the bed-he was in the shadow, the open curtains were draped with great precision, and on the pillow, just in its middle,

entered they signalled to me with their hands as if to say: "Softly, softly, make no noise; she is asleep." The shade of their lamp threw a vivid light upon t

people about to die; but when I, in a very low voice and with some uneasiness, questioned t

hey allowed me to go towards the bed; but before I reached the middle of

very low voice, "come bac

a halt of myself, I was overwh

erson, and I had imagined until then, that when the spirit took its departure all that remained was a grinning, hideous skeleton. On the contrary my grandmoth

hidden depths, and I reflected: How can grandmother be in heaven, how am I to understand the division of the one body into two parts, for

ask a question of any one, fearful lest what I had so unerringly divined would b

lken sachet bags were always associa