About ten months previous to the time of which I am speaking, this woman first came amongst us, bringing her baby, then about six weeks old. I thought I had scarcely ever seen so sweet a child; the expression of the little face reminded me of something holier and purer than is usually to be met with in this fallen world; and I did not wonder that it was said, “Of _such_ are the kingdom of heaven.” I knew both the father and the mother. The father was a genius of no common order, and, but for the fatal habit of drinking, would have risen in the world. The mother had known better days, and not having much spirit, she had too easily resigned herself to her fate, and scarcely exerted herself as much as she might have done, to avert the evils that surrounded her; consequently their home was an unhappy one. On the first evening of the introduction of these little ones, we are in the habit of commending them in prayer to the especial care and protection of our heavenly Father. I am afraid the prayer that night was not mixed with faith, as it ought to have been. I remember thinking of the home in which this child was to be trained, and of all the evil influences to which he must be exposed; and I wondered _how_ he was to be “led straight through this world of sin, and get to heaven at last.” I thought of him “tossed on the tumultuous sea of human passions and temptations, without any strong, kind hand to guide the helm;” and I could have wept, as I prayed that he might be shielded from life’s bitter trials and temptations. “I long’d for that happy and glorious time, The fairest, and brightest, and best, When the dear little children of every clime Shall come to His arms and be blest.” I could not sleep that night without again committing this sweet child in prayer to Him who “carries the lambs in His bosom.” This mother and baby were so constant in their attendance, that we should have suspected something wrong if they had not made their appearance. As the baby grew, he became still more lovely; he smiled sweetly when he was noticed, and we all loved him so much, that he was universally called “_our_ baby.” I occasionally took him on my lap when I was reading, that the mother might get on the faster with her work. He used to sit quietly, making playthings of my fingers, or looking intently into my face, that he might be ready with his sweet smile when he was noticed. And it was for the loss of “our baby” that the poor mother’s tears were flowing so fast. No wonder that many hearts there sympathised in her grief; and thoughts, too deep for words, kept us silent. The mother was the first to speak; she said— “Ma’am, do you remember the first evening I brought him here? You looked at him so, and said he was a pictur’ child.” “Yes; I was just thinking of it.”