"I WONDER who made God? Mamma don't know. I thought mamma knew everything. The minister don't know, because I asked him. I wonder do the angels know? I wonder shall I know, when I go to heaven?"

  Dear little May! She looked like an angel then, as she stood under the linden-tree, with her eyes fixed on the far-off sky, and the sunlight falling on that golden hair, till it shone like a glory round her head. You would have loved our little May,—not because her face had such a pensive sweetness in it, or that her step was light as a fawn's, or her little limbs so gracefully moulded,—but because her heart was full of love for every living thing which God had made. One day I rambled with her in the wood. She had gathered her favorite flowers,—the tiniest and most delicate;—the air was full of music, and the breeze laden with fragrance; the little birds were not happier than we. Little May stood still; her large eyes grew moist with happy tears, and dropping her little treasures of moss, leaves, and flowers, at my feet, she said, "Dear Fanny, let me pray."

  She knew that the good God scattered all this beauty so lavishly about us, and she could not enjoy it without thanking Him. Dear little May! we listen in vain for her voice of music now.