A quiet step drew near, a strong arm was passed about her waist, and a
kind hand drew her head to a resting-place on her husband's breast.
"Is it so?" he said in moved tones, gazing through a mist of tears upon
the quiet face of the young sleeper. "Ah, darling, our precious lamb is
safely folded at last. He has gathered her in his arms and is carrying her
in his bosom."
There was no bitterness in the tears that were shed to the memory of
little Lily; her short life had been so full of suffering, her passing
away was so joyful that they must rejoice for her even while they wept for
their own heavy loss.
They laid her body in the family burialground and mamma and the children
went very often to scatter flowers upon the graves, reserving the fairest
and sweetest for the little mound that looked so fresh and new.
"But she is not here," Rosie would say, "she's gone to the dear home above
where Jesus is. And she's so happy. She'll never be sick any more because
it says, 'Neither shall there be any more pain.'"
Lily was never spoken of as lost or as dead; she had only gone before to
the happy land whither they all were journeying, and where they should
find her again blooming and beautiful; they spoke of her often and with
cheerfulness, though tears would sometimes fall at the thought that the
separation must be so long.
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