The Shroud

There was once a mother who had a little boy of seven years old, who
was so handsome and lovable that no one could look at him without
liking him, and she herself worshipped him above everything in the
world. Now it so happened that he suddenly became ill, and God took him
to himself; and for this the mother could not be comforted, and wept
both day and night. But soon afterwards, when the child had been
buried, it appeared by night in the places where it had sat and played
during its life, and if the mother wept, it wept also, and when morning
came it disappeared. As, however, the mother would not stop crying, it
came one night, in the little white shroud in which it had been laid in
its coffin, and with its wreath of flowers round its head, and stood on
the bed at her feet, and said, "Oh, mother, do stop crying, or I shall
never fall asleep in my coffin, for my shroud will not dry because of
all thy tears, which fall upon it." The mother was afraid when she
heard that, and wept no more. The next night the child came again, and
held a little light in its hand, and said, "Look, mother, my shroud is
nearly dry, and I can rest in my grave." Then the mother gave her
sorrow into God's keeping, and bore it quietly and patiently, and the
child came no more, but slept in its little bed beneath the earth.
