"Whose pictures are those, Aunt Clara?" asked the child, as she stood gazing at the portraits of two lovely children, a boy of twelve, and a girl of nine years of age. "That is my Edward, Madeline, and that is my sweet Agnes; they have been among the blessed ones seven years now; they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. Only one week separated them. Edward was taken first with scarlet fever, and Agnes followed him in one short week. Oh! Madeline, these were dark hours when I laid my darlings in the grave; but they were lambs of Jesus' flock, Maddy, and the comfort came. Jesus healed my wounds with his own gracious hand. I can say now, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'" "What a sweet face Agnes has! She looks so pure, just like a sweet lily of the valley." "That's what we used to call her, Maddy, for she was just as lovely as those sweet lilies. Look here, my child," and Mrs. Edmonds opened a little book which contained a number of dried flowers. "These she gathered the last year of her sweet life, and pressed them for her mother; they are so precious, Madeline. Come up stairs, my dear, I want to show you something else," and Aunt Clara led the way to a small room that was always locked. "This was my darlings' play-room, Maddy." A baby house, a rocking horse, some hanging shelves filled with books, several dolls, a little bureau filled with dolls' dresses, and a box of carpenters' tools--all these sweet mementoes were there. But that which touched Madeline most, was the last Christmas tree that the mother had ever dressed. There it was, with all its little keepsakes from various friends. "Oh! Aunt Clara, did it not break your heart to part with both?" "It would have done so, my child, but for the grace which bade me look upward, when the first storm of grief had passed, and I could look up at the crown of glory, the palms of victory, and the white robes of the upper world; then by degrees my grief was stilled, and I have found comfort in lightening the griefs of my fellow-sufferers, and spreading the flowers of love along the path of other children, as I would have done for my own darlings." "That's what makes you so good to Lucy, dear aunt," answered Madeline. "Lucy is a great blessing, dear; she is so thoughtful for her years. I think she never forgets my sorrow, and is always trying to make up for the loss of those who have gone before." "Why, aunt, I never should have thought that you had seen so much trouble, you are always so smiling and happy." "Maddy, there are some of the marks of the grief that wrung my heart," and she pointed to the silver hair, so fine, so soft, "it turned white in one night, my child."