close widow's cap, and her hands on each side of the cradle in which
her treasure was sleeping. The grandfather would gladly admit that
the treasure was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself would
agree, and Mrs. Grantly, Eleanor's sister, would re-echo the word
with true sisterly energy; and Mary Bold--but Mary Bold was a second
worshipper at the same shrine.

The baby was really delightful; he took his food with a will, struck
out his toes merrily whenever his legs were uncovered, and did not
have fits. These are supposed to be the strongest points of baby
perfection, and in all these our baby excelled.

And thus the widow's deep grief was softened, and a sweet balm was
poured into the wound which she had thought nothing but death could
heal. How much kinder is God to us than we are willing to be to
ourselves! At the loss of every dear face, at the last going of
every well-beloved one, we all doom ourselves to an eternity of
sorrow, and look to waste ourselves away in an ever-running fountain
of tears. How seldom does such grief endure! How blessed is the
goodness which forbids it to do so! "Let me ever remember my living
friends, but forget them as soon as dead," was the prayer of a wise
man who understood the mercy of God. Few perhaps would have the
courage to express such a wish, and yet to do so would only be to
ask for that release from sorrow which a kind Creator almost always
extends to us.

I would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs. Bold forgot her
husband. She daily thought of him with all conjugal love, and
enshrined his memory in the innermost centre of her heart. But yet
she was happy in her baby. It was so sweet to press the living toy