The boy caught her hand and held it fast. There was an expression of such trust and hope, making her face young again, that a vague fear shot into his mind that she was just ready to float away from his sight forever. “Don’t, grandma!” he exclaimed. “What, dear?” “Did you hear ’em sing?” he whispered, in a sort of awe-stricken way. “What do you mean, little one?” “You looked as if they were calling you—the angels, you know. You won’t go away!” “They will call sometime, my boy, and your poor, old, tired grandma will go to her rest. Only we must have patience, Joey—a little patience.” “I don’t want you to go,” said Joe, stoutly; “and I don’t think I like the angels either!” “Why, Joseph!” said the old lady, startled into a practical view of things by the expression of a sentiment so dreadfully heterodox. “What do you mean? Not like the angels that live up in heaven? Just think a little.” “Well, they’re always taking folks away,” he replied, rebelliously; “and I wish they wouldn’t! I’m sure they can’t love you as well as I do, for I’ve known you all my life; and they’re only strangers, after all.” Joe spoke as solemnly as if his little existence had endured several scores of years; and grandma, in spite of feeling it her duty to impress a proper orthodox lesson on the child’s mind, could not help a smile at the idea of the angels being considered interlopers, and unjustifiably inclined to meddle with human affairs. “They love us, Joey,” she said. “Yes; but not so well as we love each other, I guess.” “They come to take us home,” she added. “Then I want ’em to take us all together,” retorted Joe. “They might have a family ticket, as they had at the fair,” he added, briskly, after meditating a little; and he looked quite delighted at his brilliant suggestion. “Oh, Joe!” said the old lady; but grandma’s devotion was of a very sweet and loveable kind, and, certain that the child had meant no irreverence, she could not quite feel it her duty to give him a serious lecture upon the enormity of giving expression to such proofs of total depravity. “That wasn’t wicked, was it, grandma?” “You didn’t mean it to be, dear,” she answered, softly. “But you must remember the angels do love us, and they wont be strangers to us when we see them.” Joe did not attempt to dispute a point that his grandmother stated so distinctly; but he remained sufficiently doubtful to make him desirous that the unseen visitants should not hasten their coming; and he still held fast to his grandmother’s hand, giving a long breath of satisfaction when he saw the glow of exaltation die slowly out of her face, and the every-day look of patience and resignation settle down over its pallor. “You are making me very idle,” said the old lady, shaking his little fingers gently off her hand; “and we both forgot you haven’t said any lesson this morning, little boy.”