the
busy hum of life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that lay
distinctly spread out before them; but nothing could elicit a word
from her, till turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes for the
last time upon the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its
rich sunset dyes, she said,

"O, mamma, lay me in my little bed;" and after noticing apparently
every object in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep stupor
for four successive days and nights. Her face was pale as marble, and
incoherent words escaped her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,

"Oh, carry me home--carry me home." When she revived from the stupor,
at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering. But no word
escaped her lips.

Everything that medical aid could do was done, and every attention
was paid to the suffering child by her parents and friends, and every
effort used to stay the disease. But "he who seeth not as man seeth,"
willed it otherwise, and all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day
the rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the sufferings
of the dear little one were extreme. Even then, it was evident she
knew her friends, and many were the tokens of affection bestowed
upon them as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to her
necessities.

Often would she reach up her little emaciated hands, and placing them
upon her mother's cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe
her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow beside her,
and take her little wasted hand in hers. And when she sang to her, in
a low, trembling voice, her little favorite hymn,

"There is a happy land, far; far away,"

she lay quiet, and seemed listening with much attention, raising one
little hand three times, then laying it fondly round her mother's
neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken mother breathe
sad, melancholy music into the ears of her dying child.

Towards evening that restless state, so common in cholera infantum,
came on, accompanied at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said
must soon wear her out.

He gave her an opiate, hoping to relieve the distress.

Towards midnight she dropped into a little slumber, and the mother,
weary with watching, retired, leaving the father and a sister, to take
care of her.

It was Sabbath morning; the gray dawn was just streaking the east with
the earliest beams of day, when the father, who sat a little distance
from his child, t