Another little one is given to soothe the mother. She watches it with trembling heart, through all the stages that her first-born had passed. Every unusual motion, every cry the child utters, fills her heart with alarm; some fresh cause for fear is found daily. But the little one thrives, has reached and passed all the points of deep interest which once before the mother watched with such pride. Now it begins to lisp her name, and shortly its cunning prattle is the theme of constant thought and conversation. When she rises in the morning,--at the table, by the fireside,--it is again and again repeated, a many-times-told tale, but always fresh, always new and beautiful. The mother has nothing else with which to entertain the friends who call, and truly believes that nothing could be told so new or so pleasing. In her absorbing delight over each new grace and beauty that is day by day developing, has she always remembered the Giver of her treasure? or, has her love become idolatry? Again death enters, and just as the mother has begun to feel secure, her darling is snatched away from her. In this hour of anguish, what can comfort? Her heart rises up in rebellion, and she sees only cruelty in this second stroke. In her despair she accuses God wrongfully. She demands the reason why, “What evil have I done, that I am bereaved of my children?” And friends can only weep with her, saying, “What ye know not now ye shall know hereafter!” We grieve with you, poor stricken mother. We know every step of the thorny road you are crossing; but do not allow these trials to make your heart grow cold and bitter. You say, “I see nothing but injustice in these dispensations which have left my home so desolate. Another child has been given us, but I am trying to steel my heart against it, for anything I love is taken from me.”