"Dost hear, mother?
I've been counting the strokes--fifteen-- and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!" "Peace, darling," said Mary Winslow; "hear what old Margery is singing below: "Fear no more the lightning's flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash-- Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young--all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust." "Why do you cry, mother ?" said the little one, climbing on her lap and wiping her tears.
"I was thinking of dear Auntie, who is gone from us." "She is not gone from us, mother." "My darling, she is with Jesus." "Well, mother, Jesus is ever with us--you tell me that--and if she is with him she is with us too--I know she is--for sometimes I see her.

She sat by me last night and stroked my head when that ugly, stormy wind waked me--she looked so sweet, oh, ever so beautiful!--and she made me go to sleep so quiet--it is sweet to be as she is, mother--not away from us but with Jesus." "These little ones see further in the kingdom than we," said Rose Standish.

"If we would be like them, we should take things easier.

When the Lord would show who was greatest in his kingdom, he took a little child on his lap." "Ah me, Rose!" said Mary Winslow, "I am aweary in spirit with this tossing sea-life.

I long to have a home on dry land once more, be it ever so poor.