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 monument than the form of her only son, bending tearful, but hoping, over her grave? “But, William,” said I, “it is in another world that she will arise,” --and I attempted to explain to him the nature of that promise which he had mistaken. The child was confused, and he appeared neither pleased nor satisfied. “ If mammy is not coming back to me — if she is not to come up here, what shall I do?-I cannot stay without her.” “You shall go to her,” said I, adopting the language of the Scripture-“you shall go to her, but she shall not come again to you.” “Let me go, then,” said William, “let me go now, that I may rise with mammy.” “William,” said I, pointing down to the plants just breaking through the ground, “the seed which is sown there, would not have come up, if it had not been ripe; so you must wait till your appointed time, until your end cometh.” “Then I shall see her?” “I surely hope so.” “I will wait, then,” said the child, “but I thought I should see her soon — I thought I should meet her here.” And he did. In a month, William ceased to wait; and they opened his mother's grave, and placed his little coffin on hers — it was the only wish the child expressed in dying. Better teachers than I had instructed him in the way to meet his mother; and young as the little sufferer was, he had learned that all labors and hopes of happiness, short of Heaven, were profitless and vain.
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