It was a sad day in Greenhills when we knew that Susan Holcomb's little
Jerusha was dead. We all loved the child, and she was her mother's
dearest treasure. Susan was a widow, and this was her only child. A
pretty little creature she was, with yellow curls and dark-blue eyes,
rosy and plump and sturdy. But a sudden, sharp attack of croup seized
the child, and in a few hours she fell asleep. I need not tell you of
the mother's grief. She could not be comforted because her child was
not. One day a little neighbor, a boy with great faith--not wholly
misplaced--in the helpfulness of Story-tell Lib's little parables,
succeeded, with a child's art, in bringing the sad mother to the group
of listeners. And it was that day that Lib told this new story.