In the nursery Mr. Dudley sat, his countenance paler and more serious than his pastor had ever seen it. As the gentleman stood one moment in the hall waiting to receive an answer to his low knock, he heard Gerty's voice talking to her husband. "I've always known she was only lent to me for a little while. At first I prayed a great deal that God would let her stay to help me be good." "She, help you, Gerty?" "Yes, Paul; and if you could be with her and see how patiently she bears all her pain,—if you realized how soon she is to be in the presence of the Saviour,—to rest in his bosom; you would find how easy it is to put away all unkind thoughts; to bear all the little vexations of life if we may grow meek and quiet like her. You remember Christ said to his disciples, that they must become like little children; and I've just been reading, 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.'" Dr. Gilbert's repeated knocks at last were answered by Mr. Dudley himself, who seemed greatly relieved when he saw who the visitor was. "Come in, sir," he said, cordially extending his hand. "Gerty, here is a gentleman who can comfort you much better than I can. She thinks her baby not quite so well to-day, and wants me to stay at home and help her watch it." An expression of pain, for one instant, clouded the mother's fair countenance, but was instantly succeeded by a look of resignation, so elevated, so holy, that the pastor paused to gaze. "I'll hurry home, Gerty; and perhaps I'll find time to run in at noon," said Mr. Dudley, making a little bustle to hide his embarrassment. He feared Dr. Gilbert would offer to pray for the child before he should be out of the house. "Precious babe," faltered the clergyman, bending over her. "We cannot mourn for you, who will so soon be free from pain and sorrow. No, sweet and unwearied as your mother's care has been, the tender love of your Saviour, who shed his blood for you, will be more sweet, more unwearied; but babes are God's precious gifts, and it is hard to part with them." "God will give strength to bear the chastisement he sends," faltered Gerty, without raising her eyes from the infant's face. "He knows how I love her, and he would not take her away unless he saw it was best." "'A bruised reed shall he not break,'" repeated the clergyman. "It is sweet to feel that he does not take her from me in anger," was the faint rejoinder. "God chastens those whom he loves, my child, for their own growth in every Christian grace. By this affliction he intends to bring you nearer to himself."