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“ Yes, I am sure you did, my jewel,” said
Mother Brita, “ and God be praised that He
has taken the baby out of his poor little body.
Never can pain or sin toucb him now.”
Mother and Father said that I had done
just right to stay, and when Mother kissed me
good-night she said she was sure that the dear
God Himself had been with me and the poor
little baby. And that seemed so wonderful
and beautiful and solemn that I could never
tell any one, even Mother, how beautiful it
was.
Up in the churchyard there is a tiny grave,
the grave of Mother Brita’s grandchild. I
know very well just where it is and I often put
flowers upon it in the summer. What I like
best to put there are rosebuds, fresh, lovely,
pink rosebuds.
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