e book.

Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,
telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she
said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could
hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter
and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It
was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and
then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking
mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though
her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.
We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had
been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose
still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and
then they buried grandmother.

On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among
the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church
sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were
written in the old book under the head of the dead one.

The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;
every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from
the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are
living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange
thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.
They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth
has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within
it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh
roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there
still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,
gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will
once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for
the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in
the grave.

A GREAT GRIEF

This story really consists of two parts. The first part might be
left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful.

We were staying in the country at a gentleman's seat, where it
happened that the master was absent for