It was a cold day in January when he came in a little sad from his play, and said, “Mother, I do not feel well; will you take care of me?” His mother was busy and did not answer, and soon he said again, “Will you put your hand upon my head, mother; it aches? I think I shall be sick and die; but I shall go to heaven, where God lives, and be happy.” He had never before talked of death, and it was not known that he had ever particularly thought of it. But now he often said, “I am going to Jesus, you must give up me, mother. I am not afraid, I am happy.” A quick consumption soon wasted his form and destroyed the bloom upon his rosy cheek, but he thought only of the bright world to which he was going. Their home was a rude Indian cabin, but the mother was a refined Christian woman. She knew not how to read, but she had learned the language of prayer. Her heart, too, was swelling with a mother’s love. She knew not how to give him up. A few moments before he died, in great distress he said, “Now mother, pray.” She knelt alone beside him, and in her own rich language poured out her heart to God. When she had finished he said, “Some one has come in—how pleasant he looks.” No one had entered, but still he gazed as if looking upon some beautiful object, then slowly drooped the lid over the brightly-kindled eye, and he was gone. In the gateway of this entrance to the city of the dead was buried a distinguished pagan chief, and all around sleeps the dust of Indian warriors and chiefs, sad relics of those who fell in bloody battles long before the red man has any tradition concerning the spot. Here, too, are many captives, borne from Christian firesides in childhood, to become the brethren of the children of the wilderness, and be laid to rest away from their kindred in a strange land, and here are old men and aged women who, at the eleventh hour, came up to labor in the vineyard of the Lord. An old lady used to come tottering to meeting when it seemed impossible her feeble limbs could support her. When surprise was expressed that she should come when the weather was cold, and she had so far to walk, she said with great earnestness, “Oh! I shall always come as long as I can get here, and when my poor body is too feeble to attempt it longer, I shall bow my head this way as often as the season of prayer returns.” Her dust is now mingling with the strange group in this strange place, and yet it is still but a few years since the messengers of a better faith came among them. The fruits have been rich and abundant, among those who belonged to the generation already passed away, and among those who are still living useful and honored in the Church and the community, rejoicing the hearts of those who have diligently and faithfully labored, as stewards of Him who is Lord of the vineyard, and who sent them forth.