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202

DEATH OF RACHAEL'S FATHER.

away when my mother died: did you faint, papa ?" and then she drew towards him.

“Oh! do not, do not, child!” exclaimed the unhappy father, in a voice so like a scream, leaning back at the same time in his chair, with so dismal a groan, that Rachael shrunk away affrighted, and resumed her place on the rug, determining not to speak to him any more, lest she should say any thing to disturb him, for he had been very ill for some days; and, indeed, had been declining since her mother's death.

The little girl sat very patiently, waiting till her father should again speak; but he did not notice her; and she began to be tired of sitting still; besides, she had waited so long, that the candles became dim and long-wicked, and the fire was black and sunk down. She began to feel chilly and desolate, and the room seemed to her to look gloomy and uncomfortable. Still she would not disturb her father, who appeared to be sleeping soundly in his large arm chair. As she looked at him, she thought of her mother, who used to sit in that chair of an evening before she died; and again the little girl wondered why her father had said he was 'glad.'

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At last, however, Rachael.could bear the silence and gloom no longer: as therefore she would not awake him, she rang the bell for the servant to come and snuff the candles and make up the fire. When the old nurse came to see what her master wanted, Rachael went to her and whispered, at the same time pointing to her father, and placing her little finger on her lips, in token that he should not be disturbed.

But no sooner had the old woman cast her eyes on her master, than she exclaimed, "Gracious Providence! my poor master's dead! Oh, lack-a-day! lack

GRIEF AT HIS LOSS.

203

a-day! my poor child! these are sad days for thee," she added, turning to Rachael, who stood perfectly motionless at those dreadful words, which told her that now her father also had left her.

The next morning, the unhappy orphan was removed from the house in which she had lost her fond father and mother, and was taken to live with her aunt. This kind woman sought, by every means in her power, to prevent the mind of the child from dwelling too much upon the dreadful bereavement she had so recently sustained; and, from Rachael's quiet manner, she was induced to hope that she had, in a great measure, succeeded. But, one evening, about a week after the little creature had left her parents' house, she appeared to be unusually thoughtful, and no endeavor on the part of her aunt could prevail upon her to be amused with, or interested in any thing. She sat silent a long time, with her arms folded upon the table, her head leaning upon them, and her eyes fixed upon the work in which her aunt was engaged.

"Is there any thing you would like to do, my dear Rachael?" asked the kind foster-parent, who had previously, in vain, offered her picture-books, pencil and paper, and dolls.

"Yes, aunt, I should like to die," answered the child.

Her aunt was surprised, but did not make it appear so, and said, "Why do you wish to die, my dear?" Because I should then be happy."

"And are you not happy, my dear little Rachael?" "Not very, aunt," she replied, mournfully.

"And why do you think you should be happier if you were dead, my dear?"

204

INCIDENT IN THE CHURCH-YARD.

"Because I have been rather a good little girl, and my father said all good people were happy when they were dead; he said my mother was 'perfectly happy," added she, in a lower voice.

"And so she is, my love; but tell me, Rachael, why you call your father and mother by those names, instead of papa and mamma, as you used to do?" said her aunt, wishing to direct her thoughts to some other subject.

"Because father and mother sound more as if they belonged to somebody else; and papa and mamma sound somehow more every-day, as if they were still the same as they were; but they are not the same to me as they were, now that they have been laid in the church-yard." And poor little Rachael heaved a deep and strange sigh for so young a heart. Her aunt now earnestly endeavored to make her talk and think of something else, and at length succeeded.

The next morning, the little girl was nowhere to be found. It was bitterly cold, and the snow was on the ground. Her aunt, in terror for her safety, had sent the servants to seek in every direction, while she herself immediately proceeded to the spot whither she felt most inclined to suspect she had stolen.

As the good lady entered the retired country churchyard, she beheld the object of her search, lying quietly stretched upon a small grave, covered with snow. The beams of an early morning sun played gently on the form of the little sufferer, while a robin (that benign friend of babes) whistled its few pensive notes on a neighboring yew tree. A few coils of twine lay in the relaxed grasp of the child's benumbed fingers. As the affectionate woman approached, her tender charge aroused, and looked round with a bewildered gaze.

DEATH OF RACHAEL.

205

"Why are you here, my dear Rachael?" said her aunt; "let us go home; it is warmer there; why did you come out in the cold ?"

"I wished to come and see this church-yard, where all the people are happy."

"But what were you doing with that piece of twine, my love?" asked her aunt.

"Why, I was afraid that none but grown people were allowed to die and be happy: so I have been measuring the graves, to see if there are any little children as small as I am here; and I have found this one, which is as long as I am; so I hope I shall soon be happy with my father and mother." The child smiled a calm smile.

In three weeks "the little mourner" was at rest by the side of her parents.

The last and most affecting incident in the above story-that of the child measuring the graves, is but the record of an actual occurrence; and the whole narrative contains more native truth than is "dreamt of in our every-day philosophy."

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CHAPTER XII.

DECEMBER.

""Tis dark DECEMBER now. The early eves
Are starless, long, and cold;-the rain-winds moan
Like pining spirits ;-night seems never gone;
The day delightless dies, and morning grieves;-
The robin perches most on household eaves,
Craving the crumbs he sings for from the kind;-
The slim deer shelter from the bitter wind
Behind broad trees, couching on withered leaves.
But though all things seem sad without our door,
Within sits Christmas at the board of cheer,

Heaped with large tithings of the months and year;—
Wild wit hath now his whim ;-light laughter roars,

Till music lifts her voice;-and wealth's warm hearth
Hath its bright eyes, old wines, brisk fires, dance, song, and
Lyric Leaves.

mirth."

"I CANNOT think," said Mr. Stock, "what poor Mrs. Parker will do to maintain her little family through the winter. She has but within these few weeks brought another babe into the world; she has four little ones besides, not one of which is yet able to earn its bread; she herself is not a strong woman, and her husband, who was formerly a kind and hard-working man, has, within these last twelve months, taken to that vile practice of gin-drinking. He will not now work more than two or three days in the week; all the remainder of his time is passed in playing at skit

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