Fragrance at a child's deathbed

I should like to tell you of a sweet little human flower, writes Vaira, in Medium and Daybreak, about whose passing away there was a circumstance that struck me at the time as very strange.

It is said that some flowers give forth their sweetest fragrance in death. 

Nellie was the daughter of a dear friend of mine in Russia, and at the time she left us was five years and a half old. I had been present at her birth, and during her brief earth life she had scarcely ever quitted me. She was a very delicate child, with a mind and affections far beyond her years, and towards her mother and myself she manifested such earnest thought, and deep love, as is rarely if ever met with in one so young.

In the autumn of 1874 he took cold, and her health began to be seriously affected, but although the little body was often sick and weary, the spirit seemed more active than ever, and she daily grew more thoughtful for others, and (if possible) more loving to us.

As is the custom at Christmas tide in Russia we had a tree for the little ones, and our dear child was present. She came to me when she had received her gifts, and startled me by saying: Auntie, dear, this is the last Christmas tree. I replied, You mean it is the last till next year, dear. No, auntie, she answered, with her lovely, earnest eyes fixed on mine—no, it is the last. In a few days she was too unwell to rise from her bed, and I carried her to my own, which made her very happy. The best medical advice was given, but nothing could be done for dear Nellie, and in two weeks from the time I had lain her on my bed, God took her to himself.

I cannot write about that sad time, for she suffered very much indeed, and we never left her side. Before she became unconscious (the day before she passed out), she assured us of her love, and said such sweet and touching things that her poor mother had to leave the room more than once to hide her grief from the searching eyes of her child. After many hours of agony the change came, and our darling lay transfigured, at rest. The bells were ringing for the commencement of the Sabbath, for the sun was setting; it was four o'clock on Saturday, 18 January 1875. Bowed down with grief as we were, it was only after some moments that I remarked the peculiar odour of incense that filled the room, and which seemed to rise from the bed where the little one was lying. I stooped over her and kissed her face and hands; both seemed impregnated with the same peculiar fragrance, and the air became heavy with the perfume of spices. It resembled the incense used in the Greek Church, which has, I think, a more pungent character than that usually employed in Roman Catholic services, but there was something still more aromatic and delicate in the smell. The woman who came to assist me in my sad offices perceived it; the elder children who came to sit by the little marble form also remarked it, and as far as I can recollect the odour remained in the room for two or three hours.

When the Doctor came next morning I mentioned the fact to him, asking if there could be any natural cause for the strange odour. He assured me there was none, and seemed very surprised and interested in my account of it. I knew too little of Spiritualism then to ascribe it to its true cause, which was doubtless the presence of celestial angels of the highest order. You may call me angel, now, said Nellie, on the Thursday before she left us, in reply to her mother's caressing appellation. And surely if love be the law of heaven, she was made perfect in that law, even while her spirit was held in captivity.

So our sweet flower faded from earth, but the remembrance of her pretty, loving ways and words lingers around our hearts, making sweet incense, for we know that our darling is blossoming into perfect beauty in the bright garden of our Lord in the fair Summerland, and the tiny hands still clasp our own, drawing us upwards, the pure eyes still look lovingly into ours, and the voice no longer faltering, nor faint from weakness, speaks in angelic whispers, telling of the time when we shall once more behold the little one we love so well—not as child, but a fair maiden; not the bud, but the flower. So be it, Nellie, the child! the sweet spirit!