It was not until clouds came drifting across the sky, and one of them was driven over the face of the moon, and the whole churchyard was left in darkness again; it was not until every ray of moonlight had disappeared, that little Stephen crept back to bed. The angels were gone, he said, as he laid his head on the pillow; they had flown away to the King's Garden, and perhaps, even then, they were telling the two grandchildren who died young that the flowers were blooming on their grave, and that it was no longer forsaken and desolate.