1Oh, bliss of child-like innocence, and love

2Tried to old age! creative power to win,

3And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove,

4Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin.

5CHRISTIAN YEAR.

6The rooms of the Asylum were hot and close, and as the outer door opened, it. was very pleasant to escape from them into the fresh, open air. While we did so, my mind experienced a similar kind of relief, as the plaintive accents of childhood broke in on my prolonged conversation with the superintendent.

7In spite of the interest I took in his narrative itself, it was with a feeling of oppression that I had listened to it; and there was something very refreshing in the sudden change. The sounds which I now heard proceeded from little Annie. She was standing on the threshold, just as I had seen her when I entered, except that her grief was of a less quiet character than before, and something of impatience seemed to be mingled with it.

8"It is no use," said her mother, as we approached; "the poor child will fret herself into a fever, and I cannot persuade her to come away. She does nothing but beg and entreat to be allowed to see poor Robin again. I really believe it will be the best way to take her to his cell."

9"It must not be," replied her husband; "she has no idea of what death really is; and the sight of the body would rill her mind with strange fancies, and perhaps do her serious harm; for she herself is but a poor weakly thing. You know I never refused her permission to visit him while he was alive, but I cannot suffer it now." "It is singular," he added, turning to me with a look of vexation, "that I should have found less difficulty in quieting the complaints of all the mourners for poor Robin within the Asylum, than in soothing the grief of my own little girl. I do not like to treat her with severity, and yet without it I see no hope of getting her away."

10All that I had heard of the child, inspired me with a lively compassion for her; and I asked to be allowed to try my powers of persuasion. Permission was readily granted; and I instinctively had recourse to the old man's last message, as the easiest way of gaining access to her heart. "Annie," I said, gently, "do you know where your friend is gone?" The simple question checked her sobs, and she looked timidly in my face, but made no reply. "Poor Annie!" I continued; "and did he indeed leave you without telling you whither he was going?"

11"Home, sir, home," she replied; and the accent, no less than the words, recalled to my mind the childlike old man: "he often told me that he was going home."

12"True," I replied; "and he is gone home now. Do you really wish to see him again?" She was silent; but the look of affection that beamed on every feature was a sufficient answer; so I continued: "And if you do see him again, Annie, where will it be?" Her voice faltered, as she repeated the words, "At home;" and she again burst into tears.

13"Yes, Annie," I said, after a short pause, "you cannot see him here, because he is gone away. He is now happy in the enjoyment of his home, and you must wait till you can go to him there. But, perhaps, your home is different from his. Is it so, Annie?"

14"Oh, no," she answered, with unexpected earnestness, "we are all children of the same Father, and all travel to the same Home—that is," she added, looking down, and colouring deeply, "if we are careful to keep in the path that leads to it."

15"And what path is that, Annie?"

16"The path of trustful obedience, and quiet faith, and holy love," was her immediate reply.

17I knew at once that the words were not her own, but that she spoke from memory, and that I had accidentally led her to one of the old man's allegories. I was anxious for my own sake to hear more of it, and it seemed to me that it might be good for her own sorrow to turn her thoughts for a little while into this channel; so I continued: "And is it a pleasant path, Annie, that leads us home?"

18"It is an up-hill path," she said; "but, as we walk along it, we can, if we will, awake soft notes of music beneath our feet, and there are whispering winds to cheer us on our way."

19"And what, Annie," I asked, "do you mean by the soft music and the whispering wind?"

20"The soft music is prayer," she replied, "and the whispering wind, the Holy Spirit of God."

21"And can we," I said, "have the soft music without the whispering wind? I mean, can we pray without the assistance of God's Holy Spirit?" But there was no need for me to have explained the question; the language of allegory was most familiar to the mind of the child, and she had recourse to it in her reply. "No, sir," she said, "for the spirit of harmony dwells in the breeze; and it is the wind alone that gives life to the music, and bears it upward from earth to Heaven."

22I cannot tell how far she realized the deep meaning of these words, for I did not venture to examine her upon them. I was afraid lest I should only render indistinct the image which they conveyed to her mind, by touching the colours with an unskilful hand.

23Presently I resumed:—"It must, Annie, I think, be a pleasant path along which the wind thus murmurs, and the music plays!"

24"It is a pleasant path," she replied, "and yet it is very thickly covered with thorns." "But," she added, and from the smile which for a moment lit up her countenance, it seemed as though this were the metaphor which pleased her best, "they are all magic thorns; and if we look upward to the clear, blue sky, and tread firmly upon them, they keep changing into flowers."

25"And is there not another path," I said, venturing to guess at the conclusion of the allegory, "which leads away from home, and along which the flowers, as you tread upon them, keep changing into thorns?"

26But I was wrong in my conjecture, for she looked perplexed, and replied, "I do not know, sir, about the other paths; the old man never used to talk to me but of one." And I felt ashamed of my question, as I said within myself, "Oh, happy child, to know as yet but of one path; and happy teacher, to have so shared the innocency of childhood as to have spoken to her but of one!"

27Presently, however, she continued, as though she observed my confusion: "But, sir, he said there were flowers which grow by the way-side. When the wind blows softly upon them they perfume the air; and their fragrance is very sweet and pleasant to those who pass them by; but if we stop to gather them, then they become magic flowers, and keep changing into thorns. And do you know, sir, why it is so?"

28"Not exactly," I replied; "I should like you to explain it to me."

29"Because, sir," she said, "when we gather them, we stoop down, and turn our eyes towards the earth, instead of gazing upward on the clear, blue sky."

30"But, Annie," I observed, "you have not yet told me what are the flowers which we gather, or the thorns on which we tread."

31"The thorns," she replied, "are the trials and afflictions which God sends us; the flowers are the pleasures and amusements which we make choice of for ourselves."

32"Then, Annie," I said, "the children who gather the magic flowers are those who follow their own will, while those who tread upon the magic thorns are such as submit themselves quietly to the will of God."

33Her countenance became grave, and I saw that she already guessed my meaning. I thought her mind was now sufficiently prepared to allow me to apply directly to her own case the old man's allegory; and it seemed as though his spirit were resting upon me while I did so, and I used almost unconsciously the language of metaphor.

34"Annie," I continued, "a very sharp and piercing thorn was but yesterday placed in your path. Your foot is young and tender, and I do not wonder that you should shrink from treading upon it." She trembled violently at this direct allusion to her grief, and yet looked anxiously in my face, as though she wished me to say more. My own voice began to falter, and I could only add, "But, believe me, your kind friend did not deceive you; the thorn of affliction lies on the path homewards; and if you have but courage to walk quietly on, there is none that with greater certainty will change into a flower. Go, Annie, and awaken the soft music, and you will be cheered by the whispering wind."

35One by one the tears trickled down her cheeks, as she turned to her mother, and said, "Forgive me for my impatience; I am ready now, dearest mother, to accompany you home; or I will go home directly myself, and you shall follow me." She did not trust herself to pause an instant, or make any further reply, but expressed her gratitude to me by a look, and at once hastened away: and while she went, so vivid was the impression which the allegory had made on my own mind, that the wind which played with her garments seemed to possess some holy charm, and I could fancy that I was listening to strains of music, in the soft echo of her receding steps.

36The mother also was silent; but there was no mistaking the expression of her countenance. The subdued smile on her lips, and the bright tears that trembled in her eyes, as she raised them to Heaven, told me that she was following the same solemn train of thought with myself, and treasuring yet more deeply in her heart the sayings of her child.

37There was a pause of some seconds, and the sound of little Annie's footsteps had just died away, when the stillness was again broken by her father's voice. "You were fortunate, sir," he said, "in leading her to the story of the homeward path; many visitors have considered it the most beautiful of all that the old man told. It was a great favourite with the child. I have often heard her repeating detached portions of it to herself, though I was not aware that she had found in them so deep a meaning.—It is strange, very strange," he added, thoughtfully, "for I cannot even now tell who could have explained them to her. I also have often looked back with wonder on the answers of the child. But there is a passage from Holy Scripture, which seems to be their best interpreter, and they never fail to recall it to my mind: "I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes. "*

38* Luke x. 21.

39Poor Annie! My conversation with her gave a ray of brightness to a visit which otherwise had in it enough of gloom. Nor has this feeling been in any way changed by the early death of the child. There is still peace and joy in every thought connected with her, though within a few months of my first visit to the Asylum little Annie was laid in her quiet grave. She laboured but one short hour in the vineyard, and then was taken to the same home with the old man who had borne so long and so patiently all the burthen and heat of the day. Yet my own heart was a witness that even her little hour of labour had not been without its fruit. A romantic story was told concerning the cause of her death. It was said that she had never recovered the loss of her friend, but gradually pined away in consequence of it, and at length died of a broken heart. But I believed not the tale; for little Annie did not sorrow as those without hope; and though, perhaps, the cord of affection, that united her so closely to the old man, may have hastened her progress to the home to which he was gone, I do not think that her bereavement was the cause of her death. I had left her with the impression that she was not long for this world. I cannot exactly describe from whence this feeling arose. It was not merely because her cheek was wan, and her complexion delicate, and her little heart seemed to beat with too eager emotion for the frail prison in which it was confined; but there was something in her voice, look, and manner, which kept reminding me of the world of spirits; as though, in all her youth and innocence, she were walking on its very borders, and her gentle form might at any moment fade into the mist, and vanish from my view.

40The more I reflected on this, the more sure I became that little Annie had lived her time, and that no sudden shock had broken prematurely the thread of life. I thought that this assurance might afford some comfort to her parents in their heavy affliction; for Annie was an only daughter. But when I called upon them, the mother alone was at home; and I soon found that she needed no consolation which I could afford her. She had her own secret store of treasure in every word that had fallen from her darling child. I shall never forget the look with which she said to me, "Ah, sir, I understood very little of her words while she was alive; but the moment she was gone, it seemed as though a light was shining upon them from another world, and I can read them plainly now." And then, after a pause, she added, "Do you remember, sir, on the very day you were with us, how she said, 'I will go home directly myself, and you shall follow me?' I remembered it well; and she saw from my countenance that I guessed her meaning. "Yes," she continued, as, in spite of every effort to suppress it, the big tear rolled down her cheek, "it was in order that her father and myself might learn to follow her, that little Annie was taken Home. He too, sir, has become since then an altered man. "

41A silent pressure of the hand was my only reply, for I felt that the afflicted mother had learnt more truly than I could teach her the lesson which was to be gathered from the death of her child.