wee body is pressing heavily upon the spirit; Baby is becoming conscious of the burthen. He will be quiet for hours on his little cot; he does not sleep, but he dreams. Earth's joys and lights are fast fading out of those resilient eyes; Baby's spirit is waiting on the shores of eternity, and already hears "the mighty waters rolling evermore."
The broken toys are swept away into a corner: a silence and fear have fallen upon the household, black servants weep, their mistress seeks refuge in headache and smelling-salts: the hard father feels a strange, an irrepressible welling up of little memories. He loves the golden-haired boy; he hardly knew it before. If he could only hear once more the merry laugh, the chatter, and the shouting! But he cannot hear it any more; he will never hear his child's voice again. Baby has passed into the far-away Thought-World. Baby is now only a dream and a memory, only the recollection of a music that is heard no more. Baby has crossed that cloudy, storm-driven bourn of speculation and fear whither we are all tending.
