A child of seven summers reclined upon a couch. Suffering and disease had so enfeebled his naturally fragile frame, that his thin hand could scarcely sustain a bunch of roses, which his young sister Lillias had culled for him, from his own rose-tree; the tree that it had been his joy and pride to attend to, when in health. He hard marked, delighted, the first green leaf that in the spring-time burst from its wintry repose, and very joyously he clapped his little hands when a streak of crimson peered out from the first bud. He dreamed not, amid his happiness, that the Angel of Death should steal around him before its bright hue faded, nor that others should bud and blossom--to wither upon his grave. Even thus it was. Willie M---- was a child of unusual feeling and sensibility, his young face often shadowing forth strange, sad feelings--feelings that seldom exist, save in the heart of maturer years. I have seen him gaze upward to the bright blue sky with delight, as though his childish ken could pierce the clouds, and commune with the intelligences of Heaven; and a flower--a murmuring rill--a boundless flow of water--silvery stars--and gentle winds--failed not to arouse enthusiastic emotions in his young heart, at which many marveled. "None knew him but to love him," and in his walks with "dear papa, sweet mamma, and darling Lillias," many an eye followed him with blessings. "Ah," said an aged one, whom he had cheered with sunny smiles and artless conversation, "few will be the years of Willie M----; he is one of God's angels lent to earth!" and her tears fell at the prophetic thought that even she would live to see his winsome wee face hid beneath the coffin's lid. * * * * * A group of young children stood around his bed, gazing with fearful wonder on the change that had been wrought in their loved playmate. He had begged of his mamma to send for them, that he might see them once more; and his large, spiritual eye had looked its welcome on each of that little band. Once he had hunted with them the early violet in the glade and dingle; once the echoes of his voice rang merrily out as they bounded over the greensward in chase of the bright, illusive butterfly--and his heart grew sad as he felt that he should be with them no more. A little hand was laid caressingly upon his head--it was Gary Lincoln, and as he turned around to look upon her he saw that her eyes were full of tears. "Why do you cry, Gary?" said he. "Because mamma says that you are going away to Heaven," she replied, "and I cannot bear to think of it--don't go, Willie, don't go!" and the tears streamed down her young face like rain. It was her first sorrow.