The whole meadows were besprinkled with primroses and cowslips, telling not of change and death, but of gladness and of spring. So closely did they grow, that it was difficult to walk without some of them being crushed; and instinctively I shrank from treading on them. Proceeding onwards I heard voices; and on turning an angle formed by a hedge still fragrant with hawthorn, I saw a group of three children seated on the flowery carpet. The elder one, a girl, and apparently about eleven years old, was making cowslip balls, which a boy and a girl, several years younger, were throwing at each other with merry laughter.

They were too busy to observe me, and I stood watching them. It was a group for a painter. The children were of that class which, when they are clean and healthy, is the most picturesque of all classes,— they were cottage-children. The two little ones with their rosy cheeks, their curly hair, their blithe countenances, and their rural fancy dresses, were my beau ideal of what cottage-children ought to be. They were children such as one reads about, but such as in real life are seldom seen.

This was real life; and there they were before me. The older one was different to these: her countenance excited my interest, for it had the expression of suffering. The face was pale and thin; and there was a pensiveness, almost a refinement, in the smile with which, having finished another cowslip ball, she threw it at her little brother. This seemed the signal for a general battle. She got up. The little ones got up also; and laughing and full of glee, began pelting her with the balls she had been making for them. The girl ran on, stopping at intervals to pick up the balls, and throw them back again. At length she stopped; and placing her hand on her side, she stood panting to recover breath. The young ones at once desisted from their play, and both of them running up to her caught hold of her dress.

Nelly, dear, you're tired: we won't play any more now."

"Are you very much tired?" asked the little girl;

and then, without waiting for an answer back, she bounded to the battle-field to pick up the balls which lay scattered along. With her tiny apron full of these, she came running on towards the turn in the hedge, when seeing me she stopped, blushed a still rosier red, and curtsied.

"And who made you these pretty cowslip halls ?" said I, taking one out of her apron and examining it. It was very pretty, and so curiously fashioned as to conceal all the stalks and to leave visible nothing but the fresh fragrant flowers formed into a ball. I had never seen one before, and to me it really was a curiosity.

"Her made it-Nelly, her that's out there yonder." "And who is Nelly?"

"Nelly!"-looking wonderingly into my face, "why she's Nelly."

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And is Nelly your sister?"

'Oh yes! Nelly's sister Nelly, and she's a very good Nelly, she isn't cross, and doesn't punch and bob us about as Sally does."

"So you have a sister Sally, too?"

"No, Sally ben't a bit of a sister at all, and I'm very glad she ben't, but sometimes when Nelly's too poorly to come out with us little ones into the meadows, mother asks Sally to come, her that lives in the cottage close by."

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And your sister Nelly is poorly sometimes ?"

"Yes, please Ma'am, at times like, she's very bad, and then she can't play with us, but she tries to do, for all that, and then she's forced to leave off all of a sudden like."

"But your father and mother, what do they do? "Father! we haven't got one, he's been gone away a long time, he lives in the churchyard now. mother, she goes to work at farmer Brown's."

And

"Then, when mother's out you three are left to take care of yourselves?"

"No, we're not, mother says that Him in heaven is always taking care of us, whether she's by or not, and Nelly says so too."

During this time Nelly and her brother were still in the distance; she seemed better again, and they stood looking at me, and at the little girl, timidly holding back.

"Will you give me this pretty cowslip ball?"

"Please ma'am, yes," said the child with great alacrity, "and if you'd like to have some more, Nelly will be glad, she can make them up in no time: please do have another."

"No, thank you; but this one I should like to have very much; and perhaps," taking from my purse a sixpence which I held over her head, "perhaps you I would like to have this."

She looked at the sixpence and then at me; such a pretty little look it was, expressive of childish joy and wonder; then she hung down her head, but did not speak.

it.

"Won't you take it, my little girl."

She held out her hand, and I put the sixpence into

“Please ma'am, thank you, mother will be so glad!” "And where does your mother live?"

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A bit past them there tall trees, and look, there's the smoke just coming out of our chimney; that tells that mother's come back, and we must go home now.' And off she scampered towards the brother and sister.

I watched them as they went by a path through the meadows leading towards the cottage; then I turned, but before I reached Herne Bay, the twilight had faded into darkness.

Not many days afterwards, an impulse almost irresistible urged me again to visit the church-yard. It was morning this time, the grass had been cut, the dew was still thick upon it, and the dew drops sparkling in the sunbeams. All gloomy associations were dispelled, for these sunbeams falling on the old graves in the freshness of the early morning, seemed rays coming direct from heaven to light the road to a more glorious day.

I was walking slowly round the church, when I perceived a child seated on a distant tombstone: I saw

at once that she was Nelly. The recognition was mutual; she rose, and was shrinking timidly away. I quickened my pace, and came up to her: then she stopped, curtsied, and smiled. It was that same pensive smile which had so struck me in the meadows, and which in a child so young had seemed unnatural.

You are alone to-day, Nelly?"

"Yes, ma'am; Betsy and Tom don't come with me here, mother doesn't much like me to come neither, but I can't help coming at odd bits of time: coming here always seems to make me happier, and to make the pain feel less."

What pain is it, Nelly?"

"I don't know: I can't tell; but I think that flowers when they are fading away must feel as I do, and then they die!"

There was so much pathos in the tone of her voice, that I felt the tears start: I took her hand, and leading her to one of the tombstones, we both sat down.

"And do you fear death, Nelly?"

་་

Oh no!—it's not that, for death is the only road to father's home, the only road that will lead me to where he is living now, and at times when I can't help crying, for I know that I must soon go away from mother and from Bessy and Tom, I try to think that death is the best thing that can come to me."

But, Nelly, do you ever think of another Father, to whose presence death is the road?"

"I do. I very often think of Him, and try to do what is right that I may see Him, and I try to be better than I am, and not to think what I like best to do, but what mother and the others like. Yet, try as hard as ever I can, I know that very very often I do wrong things; and then afterwards I'm so sorry, and am never happy again till I have knelt down by father's grave and said a little prayer,-that always seems to make me good for a long time afterwards. Oh dear! how I do wish that I could always be good."

"And who was it, Nelly, that taught you to seek the comfort of prayer?"

A

very kind gentleman that used to preach in the church pulpit when father was alive; and when father

was ill, he would often come and read to him; then after that we used to pray, kneeling round father's bed. Father said that he always felt happy then, for he knew that he was on the road to a better world than this, and where he would have pain and trouble no more. Sometimes he would talk about it so, that I have wished I was going there too; and I used to cry because I was not. But it won't be long before I do go. When the primroses come again, I shall be gone!"

It was more touching than I can tell to hear this young girl speak of death with such resignation and hope. I felt the tears now streaming down my face; she saw them, and the expression of her countenance as she looked at me, made them stream the faster. Just then the church-clock struck nine. Nelly started up. "Is it so late?" she said, "mother will be waiting till I go. But oh I'm so very sorry to go. Oh ma'am, shall I not see you again? You scem so kind, and I don't know how it is, but it does me good to talk to you, to tell about what I never told about before; and indeed it seems to have"

Nelly burst into tears: I took her hand and pressed it kindly.

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Yes, Nelly, I will see you again, and very soon too. I will call at your mother's cottage, and then I shall see her also."

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'Will you, ma'am; will you, indeed?" and such a grateful smile beamed through her tears, that it told more than thanks.

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"And now, Nelly," I said, pointing to the clock; now you must go. Good bye.'

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"Yes, I know it is time; but not good bye for always, not for always:" and then she hastened away across the church yard, quitting it by a gate which I had not till then perceived.

The sound of that closing gate! I hear it now.

Poor Nelly, how often would you look out for me in vain! I was called away from Herne Bay suddenly, and when I came back May had come round again. The spring had been bleak and dreary; and as, in progress to Nelly's cottage, I once more rested on the church