It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb.
The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she
did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in
all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her
lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to
receive the proffered tokens of affection.

And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either
hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to
wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy
man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast
made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before
thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted
mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.

O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly
sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly
before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and
the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.

Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their
little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost
child.

Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about
the departed cousin.

"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little
box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.