The Weeping Angel

AN Angel stood upon a mountain-top, and he was weeping.

He was happiest when he wept the most bitterly, and God was happy to see him weeping, and the men who saw him weeping were made happy hy seeing it.

The mountain was very high. It saw the sun on both sides of it. One of the Angel's wings shone like silver in the white sun-rise, and the other, was a golden crimson in the red sunset. Yet there was a night there, as well as a day, and sometimes the Angel wept most by night, and sometimes he wept most by day. But he was always weeping.

The whole earth lay below, as if it were in two vast plains sloping away from the mountain. There were the shining seas, spotted all over with ships, and the ships seemed magnified, and had a marvellous strong light upon them, much stronger than the light that was upon the seas. So the ranges of mountains on the earth, and the yellow deserts where no rain falls, and the immense forests where the noonday is dark with greenness, and the wide plains where the wild horses roam, and the two huge icy ends of the earth where cold and silence reign, seemed much less in size, and less prominent, and with less of a distinct light upon them, than the cities and villages where men dwelt. Indeed from the top of the Angel's mountain, all the objects of nature looked very small, while on the contrary everything which had to do with men looked very large.

It was a wonderful sight to hehold. In the early morning it seemed more wonderful; hut then when evening came, the evening seemed more wonderful than the morning. At noon you would have thought it most full of life, but, if you had waited till midnight you would have changed your mind, and thought there was most life then. Another strange thing about it Avas that, although the sun and moon and the great-eyed stars shone down upon the earth, yet the earth sent up more light from itself than it received from the sky; so that the

Angel saw things rather by the light that came up from the landscape, than the light that shone down upon it. It seemed studded with stars more thickly than the heavens are strewn with them on the clearest night, and they had a sweeter light. These earth-stars were the thou sands of tabernacles where the Blessed Sacrament reposes. It was an exceedingly beautiful sight, that outstretched sloping earth; and yet the Angel wept, and wept, and wept, almost incessantly.

Why did he weep? Happy tears! An Angel's tears must be all joys. There is no unhappiness among the Angels. Sorrow is not unhappiness. This is a great secret. Indeed it is the great secret of the world. All the world is always nearly telling it, nearly, but not quite. When the leaves rustle on the trees, they w^ant to tell it. When the stars twinkle, as if they had got tears in their eyes, they almost tell the secret by their looks. When the sea beats with a hollow sound upon the sand, it murmurs the great secret of the world, that sorrow is not imhappiness.

You did not know little Wilfrid. I only saw him once myself. It was easy to see at once, that he was a child who had some great vocation from God. It is not grown-up men only who have vocations. Children make a little Catholic Church of themselves, where God is always being loved and served in a particular way; and in this child-church there are wonderful things done, which we do not know of. It is very much mixed up with the kingdom of the Angels. It also has sorrows of its own, and joys of its own, and vocations of its own, beautiful mysterious vocations sent by our Heavenly Father.

Wilfrid had one of these vocations. You might have been certain he would have to suffer, and that he would have the grace to love suffering, because he was so merry a child. His soul was full of brightness and gladness, even to over flowing. These are the children out of whom strong men are made. Strength comes out of brightness. Endurance depends on happiness. It is only the light-hearted who know how to suffer rightly, and as God wishes us to suffer. These are hard words; but you will understand them some day.

Wilfrid was one of those children, the very sight of whom makes old people young again. Somehow, even when he talked nonsense, he made you think of God and heaven; and when he laughed, you felt a wish to shed sweet tears. There are many children who live more in the night than in the day. They are wise and old in their dreams by night, even when they are light and careless in their games and tasks by day. This was the case with Wilfrid; and if you had shut your eyes when he was telling one of his dreams, you would have thought it was some grown-up poet or artist who was describing things. His descriptions were almost unnatural, they Avere so like the descriptions of an educated man. But there he was with his black hair, and with barely seven summers twinkling in his eye. Yet you could see also that he was one of those children who are never meant to be men, any more than spring-flowers are meant to grow in summer.

"Wilfrid had been sleeping for an hour when he first saw the Weeping Angel. His mother had kissed him when he was in bed, and the feeling of her kiss always lasted on him through the night. But this night she had wetted his little face with her tears. Perhaps she was thinking of his father, who had died the week before, and been buried under the lime-trees by the monastery. That night he saw the Weeping Angel for the first time.

All the next day he was very grave, and yet he had never been so happy. His sisters won dered why he was so much kinder than usual. It makes us very kind to see Angels, and our eyes are filled with quiet brightness, and our voices are low and sweet. In the afternoon Wilfrid was a little impatient for night to come; and he longed to be alone in the dark, though a week ago he would have been frightened at it beyond measure.

His mother had taken the candle away, and had gone out of the room. But the curtain was not quite drawn, and he w r ent to sleep with the moon in his eyes, and the darkness this night was brighter than it had ever been before.

The golden light, in which the Angel was visible, became more golden and more clear. The mountain-top seemed quite near to Wilfrid, so near that it appeared as if he could almost touch it. But he could see no view from it-Beautiful clouds rolled at his feet. Every moment he thought they would have rolled away, and that he should have seen some wonderful sight. Indeed once they parted slightly, and through the chink he fancied he caught sight of a very sunny sea. A low wind blew upon the mountain-top; and it made a noise in the Angel's wings like the mournful sobbing and sighing in the fir-trees on the north-side of the house. He was also nearly sure that a sweet murmuring sigh came from the Angel's lips like very sad music.

The next day Wilfrid was still more silent. His face was rather pale, and his eyes were more than usually bright. He was soft and subdued in his manner. But somehow though his mother was very glad of all this, she was also somewhat uneasy. She could not under stand it, and yet she shrank from speaking to him about it. She thought of another fair child whom she had lost, and once during the day, when she had been watching the fire in Wilfrid's eyes, she suddenly went away to her own room, and knelt down, and wept bitterly, and prayed fervently to God.

The night came, and Wilfrid was put to bed. But his mother lingered longer in his room, as if she did not like to leave him. At last she had given him her last kiss; it was about the twentieth last kiss that night. Just as she was leaving his room, he asked her to draw the curtain aside, that the shining of the moon might come in at the window. She was startled at this request; and she began to ask him why he wished it, but she checked herself. But, as she put the curtain back, a silent tear trickled down her cheek.

Sleep came to Wilfrid; and the golden light grew so golden that he almost was afraid. And it seemed as if he w r as borne up to the top of the mountain, close to the Angel. And from very high above him, there came a deep, sweet, low voice, which bade him speak to the Weeping Angel. The voice did not make him afraid. On the contrary it made him very brave, and very happy. So he said to the Angel:

Angel! may I call you dear Angel?

And the Angel answered, Yes! for you are my little brother in Jesus.

Then Wilfrid said, Dear Angel! why are you always weeping?

And the Angel answered, My sweet Wilfrid, our great and good God has something which He loves exceedingly, and which He calls His glory. Now, all the world over, men are continually robbing Him of His glory, and doing wrong to Him. So I stand on this mountain top, all the j^ear round, hundreds of years; and I see all the cities of the world, and the inside of the houses, and even the inside of men's hearts. This last I could not see, except by a special permission of God. Thus I see everything which everybody does. I hear everything which everybody says. I know everything which everybody thinks. And I join myself to e^ery work, and word, and thought, on the great huge earth, and add my love of God to it, and I weep over what is wrong in it, and try to make up to God by my tears for all the glory which men might give Him, but will not give Him.. This is why I weep. And I weep always, because always, somewhere on the earth, wrong things are being done. And God loves my tears, and Mary, our sinless Queen, is always offering them up to Him. And all heaven sees me on my mountain-top, and they make songs about me there, and they love me exceedingly, and they call me Poor Earth's Angel.

But, clear Angel, said Wilfrid, I do not quite understand about God's glory. What is it like? Is it something He wants and cannot get?

Ts r o! sweet little Brother, it is not so. It is hard to explain to you. When your mother's heart is almost breaking with love of you, it would quite break with sorrow, if she thought you did not love her. Now it cannot be so with God; but it is something very like it. His glory is our love; and His love of His own glory is the greatness of His love for us. We cau only know what God's glory is like by loving Him very tenderly.

Then Wilfrid was silent, and began to weep.

But oh! they were such sweet and soft tears, that he would like to have wept so all night. Then he said, Dear Angel! will you bless me? And the Angel said, Do not come so near, lest one of my tears should fall upon you; and it is not time yet. Then the Angel blessed him, and Wilfrid was carried home so swiftly that the air sang in his ears; and he awoke, and heard the wind in the trees, and the raindrops splashing on his window-panes, and his pillow was wet as if he had been crying. He slept no more that night, but lay very still, and did not seem to want sleep. His mother's pillow was wet also, for she had seen his white face all night in the dark room, and had thought of the dead Ferdinand, his little brother.

The next day Wilfrid felt very tired, and was inclined to be silent. His mother did not go down stairs as usual to attend to her housekeeping, but she remained in the room with him. He asked if he might lie down on the sofa, because he was tired, and his mother put a cushion under his head, and went and sat where she could see him without his seeing her. He lay very quietly with his eyes shut, going over again in his mind what he had seen in the night. He forgot that his mother was in the room, and

THE WEEPi:- at last he said, half out loud, Poor Earth's Angel! His mother asked him what he meant. and he turned very red. and said to her. nothing! Do not mind me. Then after a few minutes of silence he asked her to come near him, and aft lose to hint And he put his little hot hand in hers, and said to her. Dearest mam ma! do YOU think I nmrht make mv first con-

3n nor You are not seven y: my darling: you a:

x and a half. Why do you want to go to confession?

I think, mamma. I should he happier, replied ilfrid. I think Father Andrew would let me do so.

Well darling. I shall see Father Andrew at the IK;- - school this afternoon, and I will ask hir

Thank you, dearest mamma: stoop down, and let me kiss you.

Then his mother went out, and Wilfrid lay very still, until his sisters had finished their tt lessons, and came down to him from the school room. That afternoon father Andrew consented to his making his first confession, and began to instruct him how to do so.

Thus a week passed away. Every night Wilfrid was with the Angel, on the mountaintop, and in the daytime he was preparing for his confession. His sisters thought he was growing very odd, and wise, and old-fashioned. But there was a belief among those sisters, that nothing which Wilfrid did could be wrong. On Saturday he made his confession, with his head resting on Father Andrew's knee. He shed a great many tears, not because he had been very wicked, but because his heart was almost breaking with the love of Jesus. Then he went to the little chapel in the house, and kissed his crucifix, and wetted it with his tears. His sisters came in to put some flowers before the image of our Lady, and to light a candle before it, because of Wilfrid's first confession, and as they came in, they heard him say, Oh! dear Lord God, sweet Jesus! now I also can be a Weeping Angel.

That night the Angel seemed brighter than ever, and said to him, Little earthly Brother! now you will do part of my weeping for me! You see now that it is a sad thing to be unhappy, but it is not a sad thing to be sorrowful. Jesus and Mary were always sorrowful, but they were never unhappy. Your mother is sorrowful about little Ferdinand, but she is not at all unhappy about him. You are sorry, very sorry, for your faults; yet I see in your heart that you were never more happy in your life. When you kiss your crucifix, } r ou are sorry for the sufferings of Jesus, yet the sorrow is very sweet to you.

Dear Angel! said Wilfrid, go on; you say such beautiful things.

The Angel told him to come nearer, and he would show him something. Then he touched Wilfrid's eyes, and the touch, though it was very gentle, smarted a little, and tears came, and behold! through his tears the child saw the whole world, and all its cities, with their streets lighted up, and all its villages on the mountain sides, and all its cottages on the edges of the enormous forests. And he saw what all the people were doing, and he seemed to know them by their names, and all about them, and the names of their children, and whether they were good or naughty. He saw gay rooms with people dancing in them, and rooms where men were drinking wine, and talking loud, and he observed that over those places, the Angel wept like a shower of rain. He saw also great hospitals, with beds on both sides of the rooms, and many persons suffering and dying; and the Angel wept here also, but at the same time he smiled through his tears. He also saw churches where monks were singing psalms, and organs were playing. Here also the angel wept, but it was very little. He saw thousands of children in thousands of schools, and he observed that the Angel hovered over the children, and shook his wings, so as to make some drops of his tears fall on particular children here and there. But, dear Angel! said Wilfrid, is this the earth

I have sometimes seen from the window tying in the moonlight?

Why do you ask, my little Brother? replied the Angel.

Because, answered Wilfrid, I did not think you would ha v^e had reason to weep then. When I saw the earth one night with the moonlight on it, it seemed to me, not only beautiful and quiet, but also holy and good. It felt as if God was all over it, and when I opened the window, it seemed as if God came into the room. The river made less noise where it ran under the wall, less noise than it makes in the day-time; and the trees were quite wonderful, and looked, I thought, as if they were forbidden to speak. Everything felt as if it was inside a church. I fancied you would have rested in the night, or at least on moonlight nights, or only watched over the people who were out upon the sea in ships.

Dearest child! said the Angel, I am always resting. To be working for God is the grand rest of all those who are in Heaven. We know of no other kind of rest but that. The Saints in Heaven tell me, that on earth there is no rest so sweet as suffering for God. To us Angels there is no rest so sweet as working for God. If Angels could grow weary, it would be by not loving God every moment far more than they loved Him the moment before. Happily this can never be. But as to my not weeping, I must weep almost more by night than by day. Wicked men rob and kill in the darkness. All through the dark hours men are dying, and alas! many, when they die, make Angels weep. The moon shines on as many sins as does the sun.

Oh then, I shall never be so much in love \vith the moonlight again, said Wilfrid. Yet it is very beautiful, and I always find it hard to obey my dearest mother, and lie still in bed, instead of getting up to look out of the window 7. What makes it so beautiful?

All things, Wilfrid, are beautiful, which do the will of God. And the moonlight was a thought of God, one of His wonderful thoughts from all eternity. It makes us think of His own dear Mother. Perhaps he always meant it should be so. You may well love the moonlight, for it is one of God's sweet thoughts. Nay, it is part of His love for you; for there are some worlds which have no moons, and the nights are dreadful there.

Then they went on further in their flight. They looked down into thousands of ships upon distant seas, and the Angel wept. They passed over lands where there were no churches, and no Blessed Sacrament lamps burning, and the Angel wept sadly, because the lands were very dark. But there were other lands where there were ancient Christian churches, but without proper altars, and with no Blessed Sacrament, no Mass, no pictures of the Mother of Jesus; and Wilfrid thought, but he was not sure, that the Angel wept more bitterly over these lands than over the first lands. Then there were lands all Christian, with lamps lighted everywhere, and prayer and watching all the night through, and holy convents which gleamed like moons, that were shining in the deep green woods of earth, or on the tops of sea-side hills. And though the Angel shed fewer tears over those, it seemed to Wilfrid as if the tears were coloured with blood, and the sorrow of the Angel seemed rather more like sadness, and yet it was not sad. At last Wilfrid saw a great city, with a river running through the middle of it; and he saw under the foundations of the houses, and the whole city seemed to be built on the bones of the Martyrs. And the Angel told him, it was God's city, the city of Rome. And he saw tho inside of a grand palace, with soldiers in strange dresses walking before the doors; and when the house was all still, he saw an Old Man get out of bed, very gently, so that the people who watched in the next room should not hear him. There was something very wonderful in the look of the Old Man's face. He rose, and put on a white cassock, and went in his bare feet to the window, and opened it, and knelt down before it, with a little picture of our Blessed Lady in his hand, and he began to pray.

The great city, with its twinkling lights, was beneath him, but scarcely any noise reached him but the splashing of some great fountains. Beyond the city were some mountains, which looked black and soft in the starlight, and beyond them again was the great, great world, of which that Old Man was the father. He was praying for the world, and he soon began to weep, and the tears ran down all over the picture of our dear Lady. And as he wept, his face grew more and more like that of the Weeping Angel. And the Angel bowed very low before him, and wept also.

Then Wilfrid wept so fast that in his tears the Old Man and the Angel seemed to go into one, and to be one person instead of two; and he saw heaven open, and behold! God the Father was looking with great love upon the weeping Old Man, and then the Old Man him self grew to be like God the Father. Then the light became brighter, and Wilfrid saw that Mary kept pointing to the weeping Old Man, and God looked into his heart, and the Angels looked into God's Face, and read something there, and millions of them flew down to Rome, and looked into the Old Man's heart, and then flew away to the north and south, to the east and west, where they saw the Old Man's heart wished them to be. The Angel told Wilfrid that this was the Pope, and that he must now go back to his bedroom, as the Pope had sent an Angel there. Wilfrid thought it very strange that the Pope should know anything about him, or should send a grand Angel to such a little fellow as he was. Perhaps it had something to do with his first confession.

Some weeks now passed. Every night Wil frid was with the Angel. He saw many other things; but they are so difficult to explain that I will leave them out. In the daytime Wilfrid seemed more and more weak and pale; but he said he was not ill. However his mother sent for the doctor, and the doctor put something like a little flute to his chest, and listened, and then looked very grave. Wilfrid patted the sleeve of the doctor's coat, and laughed at him. The old doctor stooped down and kissed him, and Wilfrid felt that the doctor was crying, because he had wetted his cheek when he kissed him.

Then the doctor went away with Wilfrid's mother into a different room; and she was a long time with him; and when she came back, Wilfrid saw that her eyes were very red, and that she also had been crying. All the rest of the day too his sisters looked very hard at him, and were very sad, and spoke almost in a w r hisper, and went about on their tip-toes as if somebody in the house was very ill; and some times they came and put their arms round him, and said nothing.

One night Wilfrid had a little headache. It was not very bad. But because of it he went to bed without saying his night- prayers, and that night he did not see the Angel at all. But he had a most uncomfortable dream, of nothing but a solid and black darkness, built up like a wall before him, and which hurt him when he pressed against it. At the same time his conscience reproached him for having made his little headache an excuse for missing his night-prayers. All the next day he was unhappy, unhappy rather than sorrowful. At night he saw the black darkness again, only behind it he heard the voice of the Weeping Angel. It said, Wil frid! you must not be unhappy. You are unhappy because you are vexed at finding you are not so good as you hoped to be. You ought rather to be sorrowful, because you have not quite pleased God. Unhappiness never sends darkness away, but sweet sorrow does. Then the voice spoke no more.

Wilfrid awoke, and he prayed all the rest of the night to Jesus to give him true sorrow, and in the morning he w r as quite happy and peaceful, and yet extremely sorry. But he had determined quite briskly never to miss his prayers again, unless his mother told him to do so, and he knew well enough that Jesus would give him grace to keep this resolution, because he felt in his heart that our dear Lady had been praying for him; and what she prays for is as good as done.

On the third night there was not exactly the darkness; but there was a kind of grey mist, and showers of beautiful, coloured drops of fire kept falling through it, and he felt that he was at the foot of the Weeping Angel's mountain, and that these showers of coloured fire were the Angel's tears. At first he was a little disappointed be cause he fancied God had not forgiven him all at once. But he soon recovered, and when he remembered how great and holy God was, he thanked Him for the grey mist, and said that, if it pleased God to punish him so, he would be content to go without seeing the Angel any more.

Now here is something very strange. Wilfrid never had any secrets with his mother. Yet somehow he had not liked to tell her about the Weeping Angel, and the nights he spent with him. He felt as if it was not a thing to talk about. He did not feel as if he was keeping a secret from his dear mother. If he had felt so, he would have told her directly. But now he determined to tell Father Andrew of it, and ask him if he had not better tell his mother. Father Andrew thought a little while, and then said he \vould go into the chapel and ask our Blessed Lord. When he came back, he told Wilfrid that he might tell his mother, but that his sisters were not to know, lest they should talk to him about it, and make him proud. Wilfrid won dered what being proud meant. However he did not ask, and indeed I do not think Father

Andrew would have been able to make him understand it. He told his mother about the Angel that day; and his mother kissed him tenderly, and said to him, God is your Father, my blesse^. child. His holy will be done!

That night all was golden again. Wilfrid was on the mountain-top with the Angel. The Angel looked more beautiful than ever. He said to Wilfrid, Once you have seen from the mountaintop; now you shall hear! Whereupon he touched Wilfrid's ears, and they tingled, and then rang as if there was water in them. At last he began to hear distinctly. He heard psalms being sung, and organs playing, and priests chanting, and sorrowful men and women sighing, and widows eyes turned up to heaven, which made a sound like sweet singing, and orphans prattling, and little children saying their prayers, 10 and nuns kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament, whose silence was turned by an Angel into the sweetest music, very gentle and very gay.

Then the Weeping Angel spoke to him again, and said, Wilfrid, do you remember you/ mother's bed of white lilies in the garden? And Wilfrid said, Oh yes! Then the Angel went on, You know how their green leaves wither and die when the plants are in flower. Their life is all in their blossom. In the same way the souls of little children, whom God makes pious very early, are to God's glory what the lily-bed is to your mother. When the world is very wicked, and God's glory withers and is yellow and dry, He refreshes it by the souls of little children, whom He takes to Himself, to increase His glory. Would you like to be one of these children whom God is so impatient to have with Him in heaven?

yes, dear Angel, yes!

Then the Angel drew him near to himself, and let one tear fall on the top of his head. Wilfrid turned very cold, and there was a little pain in his heart, but not much; and, strange to say! he liked the pain, and would not have exchanged it for anything in the world. He slept no more that night; but lay extremely still, and every now and then when the pain in his heart pinched him, he said, Jesus! my own Jesus! In the morning, when the nurse came to him, he asked her to go to his mother, and tell her that he did not think he could get out of bed. In a very few minutes his mother was in his room. She had not waited to dress herself. She bent over him, and w r hen she saw him, a strange look of bitter anguish passed over her face. The doctor came, and he went away weeping. Old nurse wept as if her heart was breaking. Sisters came in to see him, but were not allowed to speak. They promised they would not cry. And for some time they did not: but poor little Clare's lips began quivering faster and faster, and at last she burst out in a loud cry, and then Agnes, and Cicely, did so also. They were hurried out into the nursery; and if you had heard them, you would have thought their three tiny hearts must have broken; and the younger nurse scolded them for crying, and yet all the while she was crying just as much herself. And the servants went up and down the house, as if they did not know what to do; and nobody wanted any dinner, when the dinner-time came. The poor mother did not cry. She smiled. But it was a sad smile on her poor white face. At noon the bishop came, and he confirmed Wilfrid, and gave him his blessing, and kissed him, and said, Remember your poor bishop, when you see God!

Wilfrid's little heart had made such a great act of love when he was confirmed, that he was quite tired, as tired as if he had been playing in the sun a whole summer afternoon; and he fell asleep. In his sleep he dreamed that he was carried to the top of a low hill, round which there was a thick darkness, and the darkness was full of Angels, who seemed as if they wished to go nearer to something inside the darkness, but might not do so. But he was taken inside, where there was a ring of pale light, and Jesus hanging on the Cross, and Mary and John beneath. And he seemed lifted into the air, so that his face was on a level with the face of Jesus. Then he thought that the nailed Hands unfastened themselves, and embraced him, and pressed him to the Face of Jesus, and our dearest Lord kissed him on the forehead, just where the Holy Oil, the Chrism of Confirmation, had touched him. He thought also that the kiss of those sweet lips left blood upon his forehead, which sank in, and made him all heavenly within.

It seemed as if the kiss awoke him, and he found he had turned his face on one side, where a little white Crucifix was lying, and that his forehead was pressing upon it, and that the pain in his head was greater than before. His mother heard him move, and came to the side of his bed, and she dipped a handkerchief in vinegar to bind round his head, and as she stooped over to tie it on, he put out his hand, and took the hand kerchief and squeezed some of the vinegar into his mouth and swallowed it.

Why have you done that, my darling child? said his mother.

Because I was thirsty, and I wished to be like Jesus.*

As he said this he smiled into his mother's face. It was a wonderful smile. It was as if he had in his sleep grown as old as the oldest saint, and as wise as the wisest doctor, in the Church; and yet was as arch, and playful, and simple a child as ever. A thick book, if it were written on it, would not hold all the wisdom and beauty, all the sweetness and consolation, that there was in that smile. I am sure his mother will never forget it as long as she lives.

Have you ever felt one of those summer afternoons which are so beautiful that you do not even like to play, but prefer to sit still, and let

• A real incident.

yourself be happy you do not know how or why? The quietness is so quiet, that you can almost hear it breathing. The flowers smell with an unusual sweetness. The trees seem to have gone to sleep, and no birds are singing. They never sing upon such afternoons as those. Even the cows in the field lie down. The church clock trembles while it strikes, as if it was afin&st" afraid of doing wrong in striking at such a peaceful time.

It was a calm like this, while WilMd was sleeping. But there came a freshness towards evening, and an awakening of: all nature. There was a sound of air in the tree-tops like the murmur of a distant sea. The cattle rose and began to crop the grass. The birds also began to sing; and flowers began to smell, which had not smelt a little while ago. Wilfrid also awoke. He awoke that he might die. Sweet Flower of Christian Sacraments! his vespers were to be sung in heaven. The evening was to be to him an ever lasting morning. Ethel! it is hard to have to wait so long for ours.

Outside the house the sun still shone very brightly, and it seemed in the silent rooms as if the birds had never sung so loud before. Wilfrid sank very quietly. It was as if the Weeping Angel's tear was melting his soul away into God's glory. Some children belong to God and to their mothers. But some seem to belong to God only. These die soon, and they like to die. Yet they love their mothers better than other children do. Those are happy mothers who have such children. We call them God's Early Blossoms. Most mothers have one such.

Before the sun went down Wilfrid was gone.

There was one look in his eyes as if some new kind of pain startled him, and then a look of peace into his mother's face, a look which told her all was well. He was now part of God's pure glory. The three sisters went in to see him. Old nurse was sewing in the window: but she might as well have left off; for she was crying so, that she could not see through her spectacles. The poor Mother's head was buried in the pillow, her curls touching Wilfrid's cold cheek, and whenever she moved, his head sank upon hers, as if he was coming to life again, and was going to turn round and kiss her. Poor little Clare! there was one big tear on the middle of each cheek. She opened her eyes wide, and looked at Wilfrid; then she ran and flung herself into old nurse's lap, and you could not tell which of the two, the old or the young, cried loudest; and poor Clare thought that she had better die also. And all the while Wilfrid's cold cheek lay still against his mother's hair.