"My little Mae!" I cried, gathering the dainty creature into my arms. "Where did you spring from so suddenly, dear? Let me look at you again!" holding her a moment at arm's length, only to draw her again tenderly to me. "You have grown very beautiful, my child. I may say this to you here without fear, I am sure. You were always lovely; you are simply radiant now. Is it this divine life?" "Yes," she said modestly and sweetly; "but most of all the being near the Savior so much." "Ah, yes, that is it--the being near Him! That will make any being radiant and beautiful," I said. "He is so good to me; so generous, so tender! He seems to forget how little I have done to deserve his care." "He knows you love him, dear heart; that means everything to him." "Love him! Oh, if loving him deserves reward, I am sure I ought to have every wish of my heart, for I love him a thousandfold better than anything in earth or heaven. I would die for him!" The sweet face grew surpassingly radiant and beautiful as she talked, and I began to dimly understand the wonderful power of Christ among the redeemed in heaven. This dear child, so lovely in all mortal graces, so full of earth's keenest enjoyments during the whole of her brief life--pure and good, as we count goodness below, yet seemingly too absorbed in life's gayeties to think deeply of the things she yet in her heart revered and honored, now in this blessed life counted the privilege of loving Christ, of being near him, beyond every other joy! And how that love refined and beautified the giver! As a great earthly love always shines through the face and elevates the whole character of the one who loves, so this divine love uplifts and glorifies the giver, until not only the face but the entire person radiates the glory that fills the heart. "Come with me to the river, Mae," I said presently, after we had talked together for some time; "come with me for a delightful plunge." "Gladly," she said; "but have you ever been to the lake or the sea?" "The lake or the sea?" I echoed. "No indeed. Are there a lake and sea here?" "Certainly there are," said Mae, with a little pardonable pride that she should know more of the heavenly surroundings than I. "Shall we go to the lake to-day, and leave the sea for another day? Which shall it be?" "Let it be the lake to-day," I said. So, turning in an entirely different direction from the path that led to the river, we walked joyously on, still talking as we went. So much to ask, so much to recall, so much to look forward to with joy! Once she turned to me and asked quickly: "When is my Uncle Will coming?" My hand closed tightly over hers, and a sob almost rose in my throat, though I answered calmly: "That is in God's hands alone; we may not question." "Yes, I know. His will is always right; but I so long to see my dear uncle again; and to 'long' is not to repine."