Southern Christian Advocate

Children.
CARLETTA;
OR, "GOING TO SING IN HEAVEN."

[Concluded.]

"Thank you, sir: I'm sick, you see—all gone, sir—had to send the poor child out or we'd starve, sir. God bless you, sir! I wish I was well enough to play you a tune;" and he looked wistfully toward the corner where stood the old organ, baize covered, the baize in tatters.

"It's no matter," said John Harvey, with difficulty. "I'll come and see you some other time;" and he groped his way down stairs.

One month after that the two men met again, as if by agreement, and walked slowly down town. Treading innumerable passages they came to the gloomy building where lived Carletta's father. No—not lived there; for as they paused a moment, out came two or three men, bearing a pine coffin. In the coffin, the top nailed down so that no mourner might open it, provided there had been any such, slept the old organ grinder.

"It was very sudden, sir," said a woman who recognized his benefactor. "Yesterday the little girl was took sick and it seemed as if he dropped right away. He died at six last night."

The two men went silently up stairs. The room was empty of everything save a bed, a chair, and a nurse provided by John Harvey. The child lay there, not white, but pale as marble, with a strange polish on her brow. Oh, how those dark eyes on the instant became eloquent, as John Harvey sat on the side of the bed!

"Well, my little one, so you are no better."

"Oh, no, sir! Father is gone up there, and I am going."

Up there! John Harvey turned unconsciously toward his friend.

"I wish I could sing for you," she said, and her little hands flew together.

"Do you wish to sing?"

"Oh, so much!—but it hurts me. It won't hurt me up there, will it?" Where was the child looking, that there seemed such wonder in her eyes?

"Did you ever hear of Jesus?" asked John Harvey's friend.

"O yes!"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Good Jesus," murmured the child with a rare smile.

"Hawkins, this breaks me down," said John Harvey; and he placed his handkerchief to his eyes.

"Don't cry, don't! I can't cry, I'm so glad!" said the child, excitedly; and she looked up as if Heaven's light were already dawning on her.

"What are you glad for, my dear?" asked John Harvey's friend.

"To get away from here," she said deliberately. "I used to be so cold in the long winters, for we didn't have fire sometimes, but mother used to hug me close, and sing about Heaven. But I did have to go out, because they were sick, and people looked cross at me, and told me I was in the way; but some were kind to me. Mother told me never to mind, when I came home crying and kissed me, and said if I was his, the Saviour would love me, and one of these days would give me a better home: and so I gave myself to him, for I wanted a better home. And oh, I shall sing there and be so happy! Christ sent a little angel in my dream—mother told me he would and that angels would carry me up there. Oh, I feel so happy!"

With a little sigh she closed her eyes.

"Harvey, are faith and hope nothing?" asked Mr. Hawkins, pointing to the little face taking on such strange beauty, as death breathed thus icily over it.

"Don't speak to me, Hawkins; to be as that little child I would give all I am worth," was the broken response.

"And to be like her you need give nothing—only your stubborn will, your skeptical doubts, and the heart that will never know rest till it find it at the feet of Jesus. O my friend, resolve by the side of this little child, who is soon to be 'singing in heaven,' that you will be a follower of my Savior. Let reason bow here, before simple, trusting faith."

There was no answer. Quietly they sat there in the deepening shadows. The Hospital Doctor came in, stood off a little way, shook his head. It needed no close inspection to see what was going on.

Presently the hands moved, the arms were raised, the eyes opened—yet, glazed though they were, they turned still upward.

"See! see!" she cried. "O, there is mother! and there are the angels! and they are all singing—all singing."

Her voice faltered, her arms fell, but the celestial brightness lingered yet on her face. Feebly she turned to those who had ministered to her, feebly smiled—it was a mute return of thanks for all their kindness.

"There is no doubting the soul triumph there," whispered Mr. Hawkins.

"It is wonderful," replied John Harvey, looking on both with awe and tenderness.

"Is she gone?"

He sprang from his chair as if he would detain her: but the chest and forehead were marble now, the eyes had lost the fire of life; she must have died as she lay looking at them.

"She was always a sweet little thing," said the nurse softly.

John Harvey stood as if spell-bound. There was a touch on his arm; he started and turned.

"John," said his friend, with an impressive look, "shall we pray?"

For a minute there was no answer—then came tears; the whole frame of the man shook as he said, it was almost a cry,—

"Yes, pray, pray!"

And from the side of the dead child went up agonizing pleadings to the throne of God. That prayer was answered—the miracle is wrought—the lion is a lamb—the doubter a believer—the skeptic a Christian.

Careless reader, may a little child lead you.