That night a wagon was seen slowly winding its way toward the mission-house, and from a neighboring window observed to stop in front of the path that led to the door. At the same time a child, evidently very young, was heard distinctly to cry for a few moments, and then ceased, and the wagon moved on toward the great city. This is all its new-found friends ever learned concerning it. But it became a very sunbeam in their dwelling, and was beautiful as a cherub. Its ruby lips never failed to curl with that same sunny smile, whenever the tones of a pleasant voice fell on its ear, and its gleeful playfulness awoke in every heart an echo. But it was one of those bright leaves which decay and dazzle and then depart. Those upon whose hands it was thrown, helpless and dependent, thought, how could they keep and nourish it? They too, were poor, and it would be a burden. In less than a year, the bright flower faded and died. Twined around it was every heart-string, and it had found a nestling place in every bosom, when it grew cold, and shut its eyes on them for ever. They must wrap it in a shroud, and give it back to earth. To show their love, they made its grave beneath a spreading walnut, where the green mound would be sheltered from the burning sun, and the footsteps of love might linger, and the heart-broken water it with their tears. The sod was removed and the dark earth thrown up, and soon they came to the crumbling bones of a man. It was probably a warrior’s grave. But they laid the little strange baby upon his breast, and covered them, to be again disturbed perhaps in some far-off century, by another people and ruder hands. Near by is another little one, whose grandfather was taken captive nearly a century before on the banks of the Juniata; whose mother and grandmother were Indian women, and who was given when an infant to the mission family to be their own. It was a little girl, whom they named Louisa Maria, and who, though she died in early childhood, lived long enough to become a bud of promise, yes, a blossom of Christian love, and hope, and faith, a lamb of Christ’s flock. She belonged to the class of those who always die in infancy, “whose names are all on gravestones.” They are perfected without the discipline of earth’s trials, and transplanted to bloom as spring flowers in the gardens above. Life would be a dreary pathway without the little ones, and there would be discord in the heavenly choir without the soft melody of infant voices. A little while before she died, lying still upon the bed, there came a sweet smile upon her face, and she said, “I see them, ma, angels, angels all round me, come to carry me away!” and then she kissed each friend as if she were bidding them good-bye, to return again, and immediately soared away where angel-children dwell. In the same inclosure, under the same spreading tree, was buried a little Indian boy, whose mother had been long a member of the mission church.