When we heard of this little one, old Devai was with us. She had only just arrived after a journey of two days with a little girl, but she knew the perils of delay too well to risk them now. "Let me go! I will have some coffee, and immediately start!" So off she went for five more days of wearisome bullock-cart and train. But her face beamed when she returned and laid a six-weeks-old baby in our arms--a baby fair to look upon. We gathered round her at once, and she lay and smiled at us all. Hardly ever have we had so sweet a babe. But the smiling little mouth was too pale a pink, and the beautiful eyes were too bright. She had only been with us a month when we were startled by the other-world look on the baby's face. We had seen it before; we recognised it, and our hearts sank within us. That evening, as she lay in her white cradle, the waxy hands folded in an unchildlike calm, she looked as if the angel of Death had passed her as she slept, and touched her as he passed. She stayed with us for another month, and was nursed day and night till more and more she became endeared to us; and then once more we heard the word that cannot be refused, and we let her go. We laid passion-flowers about her as she lay asleep. The smile that had left her little face had come back now. "She came with a smile, and she went with a smile," said one who loved her dearly; and the flowers of mystery and glory spoke to us, as we stood and looked. "Who for the joy that was set before Him . . . endured." The scent of the violet passion-flower will always carry its message to us. "Let us be worthy of the grief God sends." And oh that such experiences may make us more earnest, more self-less in our service for these little ones! Someone has expressed this thought very tenderly and simply:-- Because of one small low-laid head, all crowned With golden hair, For evermore all fair young brows to me A halo wear. I kiss them reverently. Alas, I know The pain I bear! Because of dear but close-shut holy eyes Of heaven's own blue, All little eyes do fill my own with tears, Whate'er their hue. And, motherly, I gaze their innocent, Clear depths into. Because of little pallid lips, which once My name did call, No childish voice in vain appeal upon My ears doth fall. I count it all my joy their joys to share, And sorrows small. Because of little dimpled hands Which folded lie, All little hands henceforth to me do have A pleading cry. I clasp them, as they were small wandering birds, Lured home to fly.