Such was the scene—well suited to the gambols which a fairy child held with his guardian-angel as they played along the flowery meads, like cherub spirits in the fields of Paradise. As the little one would tottle o’er some tiny shrub, the angel form with outstretched wing upheld him, and he rose unhurt, and onward ran, till charmed by the music of some little flower, he wondering stopped to pluck its shining blossoms, and as the golden petals of a buttercup were scattered in his grasp, the little spirit freed, beheld the rosy babe that erst had slumbered on the downy couch—the same sweet angel by his side. Full in the pathway of the innocent there lay a sleeping reptile—his tiny foot was raised to tread upon the venomed head—when lo! a gaudy butterfly, lured by the angel’s whisper, lit on his outstretched arm, and when from shrub to shrub it flew, the little rover turned in eager chase. Time sped again. The sweet flower-spirits had, once more, sought the abodes of man. One rested on a nectared leaf of rose-geranium; a low moan roused it from its fragrant couch; and there before it lay the little child, and near, hovered the angel! But, as it bent over the restless sleeper, a cloud, like mists that veil the evening star, shadowed its beaming face: for, on the surface of that snowy breast, there sat a little elf, tracing dark characters. A rude blast whistling through the trees shook the loose casement. The dreamer woke—and, clambering from his little bed in haste, he sought his mother’s couch. “Oh! mother, mother dear!” he cried—her arms were forth to meet him—and as she clasped his trembling limbs, and folded him closer to her breast, he murmured, “Dear, dear, sweet mamma! let me sleep beside you! I’m afraid to stay in that cold, dark room alone!” “My love,” answered a mild, sweet voice, “Arthur is not afraid—Arthur’s a little man!” “But Arthur _is_ afraid to-night, mamma!” cried he, nestling still closer to her breast. “’Tis nothing but the wind you hear, my love; the good wind, that blew down Arthur’s pretty kite when it had lodged in the high branches. And will it not displease papa, when he comes home, to find his little son afraid to stay alone.” “Mamma, but will the wind not hurt me when it blows so hard?” “No, my love; God will let nothing injure Arthur while he is good.” “But Arthur’s not good! Arthur’s naughty. Arthur did not say his prayers!” And here, bursting into tears, he clung sobbing to his mother’s neck; while her fond arms encircling his form pressed him still closer to her heart in yearning tenderness. Then, in a voice so sweet, so gentle, she inquired, “Why did my love not say his prayers?” “Arthur was thinking of his pretty new hat and coat, and so forgot them; and oh! mamma, I felt so badly here, (pressing his little hand upon his heart,) I could not sleep! and something seemed gone! and then it was so dark, I was afraid. Mamma, I will not wear them any more; they make me forget my prayers!”