The
mother was called. Approaching the bed she saw that the last struggle
had come on. Summoning strength, she said, "Are you willing to die and
go to heaven where Jesus is?" The dear dying child answered audibly,
"Yes." The mother then said, "Now you may lay yourself in the arms of
Jesus. He will carry you safely home to heaven." Again there was an
attempt to speak, but the little spirit escaped in the effort, and was
forever free from suffering, and sorrow, and sin.
In the morning I went over to look upon my little niece, as she lay
sleeping in death. "Aunty B----" was there standing by the sofa.
Uncovering the little form she said, "She has _found the way to heaven_
now;" alluding to the conversation she had with Mary Jane, more than
three years before.
Soon, the person whose office it was to prepare the last narrow
receptacle for the little body, entered the room and prepared to take
the measurement. Having finished his work, he seated himself at a
respectful distance, and gazed on the marvelous beauty of the child. At
length turning to the father he asked, "How old was she?" "Six years and
eight months," was the reply. "So young!" he responded; then added that
he had often performed the same office for young persons, but had never
seen a more intelligent countenance, at the age of fifteen. Yet
notwithstanding the indications of intellect, and of maturity of
character, so much in advance of her tender age; her perfectly infantile
features, and the extreme delicacy of their texture and complexion, bore
witness to the truthfulness of the age, beneath her name on the little
coffin: "six years and eight months.
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