Not long ago I stood by the death-bed of a little girl. From her birth she had been afraid of death. Every fiber of her body and soul recoiled from the thought of it, |Don't let me die,| she said; |don't let me die. Hold me fast Oh, I can't go!|
|Jennie| I said, |You have two little brothers in the other world, and there are thousands of tenderhearted people over there, who will love you and take care of you.|
But she cried out again despairingly: |Don't let me go; they are strangers over there.| She was a little country girl, strong limbed, fleet of foot, tanned in the face; she was raised on the frontier, the fields were her home. In vain we tried to reconcile her to the death that was inevitable. |Hold me fast,| she cried; |don't let me go.| But even as she was pleading, her little hands relaxed their clinging hold from my waist, and lifted themselves eagerly aloft; lifted themselves with such straining effort, that they lifted the wasted little body from its reclining position among the pillows. Her face was turned upward, but it was her eyes that told the story. They were filled with the light of Divine recognition. They saw something plainly that we could not see; and they grew brighter and brighter, and her little hand quivered in eagerness to go, where strange portals had opened upon her astonished vision. But even in that supreme moment she did not forget to leave a word of comfort for those who would gladly have died in her place: |Mama,| she was saying, |Mama, they are not strangers. I'm not afraid.| And every instant the light burned more gloriously in her blue eyes till at last it seemed as if her soul leaped forth upon its radiant waves; and in that moment her trembling form relapsed among its pillows and she was gone.
-- Chicago Woman's World