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That I had died when I was of your age,
So not to have more sin on me than yours
To answer for :-these were his very words.

But I was saying that the day she died
She had been reading for some little time,
And then complained her eyes were growing

dim,

And bade me wipe them. I was just then sweeping

The hearth, and had made up our little fire ;
But when I heard her speak this way, I knew
What now was coming; but I wiped her eyes
As she desired-I knew it was no use,

And presently she gave me back the book :
'For, mother dear,' she said, 'I cannot see
To read a single word;' and just as though
She felt she would not want it any more,
Bade me to place it carefully aside,
And, putting on the cover, set it by

In the hand-basket. There was no one else
In all the house, excepting she and me—
The others all were gone unto their work.
And now I knew the time was close at hand,
Which had been drawing on for near three

years.

And presently I spoke to her again,

And now she made no answer-only stretched Her hand out to me. I took hold of it,

But in a moment let it go again,

And lighting the twelve tapers held them there-
It was a custom that my mother had,
When one was dying-so I lighted them,
And being lighted, held them all myself,
For there were none beside me in the house.
But when I saw the breath was leaving her,
I dropped them all, and by her side fell down,
But soon recovering picked them up again,
And held them there till they were all burned
down,

And as the last of them was going out

She breathed at the same moment her last breath.

And she is gone, Sir,-but what matter now,
What matter? She was but a little child,
Yet Nature cannot choose but sometimes grieve,
And must have way: why had it only been
A stranger's child I had been rearing thus,
And tending for now nearly fourteen years,
My heart would needs be sad to let her go.
But my own child, my darling Honoreen,—
Though when I think on all things, I believe,
That I am glad He took her to Himself;
It may be I shall follow before long,

For I am a poor weak creature that have seen
Much toil and trouble. Blessed be His Name
That took her first: if I had gone the first,
And left her a poor cripple in the world,
No doubt they would have all been kind to her;
But who is like a mother?-even if they

Had wished it most, they never could have done
What I have done for her; and then at last
She might have wearied all their patience out.
Then blessings be upon His holy Name,
Who called her out of this poor sinful world,
And took her to Himself.

They buried her

Down in the valley in the old churchyard,
Beside the ruined church. I wished to go
And see her laid within her little grave;
"Twould have been better for me, I believe,
If they had suffered me to go with them;
But they were all against it, and that time
They might have had their way in anything.
But when I saw the little funeral

Wind down the field, I turned and shut the door,

And sitting on a stool I hid my face;

I know not what it was came over me,

But I grew giddy, and fell down, and struck
My head against the corner of a chair,
And there has been a noise there ever since.

And now I thank you. Many a journey long You took through wet and cold to see my child, And she found much of comfort in your words; And at the last I think was better pleased To go than stay. Then why should I so grieve? And why should I not rather feel and say,

'Twas the best nursing that I ever did,

To nurse her and to bring her up for Him, Who called her to the knowledge of Himself, Then took her out of this poor sinful world?"

Trench.

EVENING HYMN.

To the sound of evening bells
All that lives to rest repairs,
Birds unto their leafy dells,

Beasts unto their forest lairs.

All things wear an home-bound look,
From the weary hind that plods
Through the corn-fields, to the rook
Sailing tow'rd the glimmering woods.

'Tis the time with power to bring
Tearful memories of home

To the sailor wandering

On the far-off barren foam.

What a still and holy time!
Yonder glowing sunset seems
Like the pathway to a clime
Only seen till now in dreams.

Suddenly struck her, 'This is not the way

I should be praying.

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Mother, lift me up,
And set the pillow under my sore knee.'
And then she has continued so, until
Her head grew heavy, and she asked again.
To be set down. How often in the night,
When all is quiet in the lonesome house,
I now stretch out my hands and feel about,
Betwixt awake and sleeping, round the bed—
For this now comes of course, and when my
hands

Find nothing, feeling round in emptiness,
Oh then it is, or when the dreary light

Of morning comes, my grief sits heaviest on me,
As though my loss were but of yesterday,

So that I scarce have strength to lift my hand, Or go about the needful work o' the house. But as the day gets forward, what with tasks That must be done, and neighbours coming in, And pleasant light of the sun, and cheerful sounds,

My heart grows somewhat lighter, till the weight Of all comes back at evening again.

The very day before she died, she said, 'Dear mother, would you lift me in your arms, And carry me this once over the door, That I might look on the green fields again?' The day was cold and raw-and I refused, 'Till seeing that her mind was set on this,

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