I feel, I know it.

How could I be unmindful of it, when I thought of you ?' 'There is nothing,' cried her friend, 'no, nothing innocent or good, that dies, and is forgotten.

Let us hold to that faith, or none.

An infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and will play its part, through them, in the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea.

There is not an angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those that loved it here.