ce turned white, as the waters whiten when a sudden breath passes over
their still surface; the muscles instantly relaxed, and Iris, released at
once from her care for the sufferer and from his unconscious grasp, fell
senseless, with a feeble cry,--the only utterance of her long agony.

Perhaps you sometimes wander in through the iron gates of the Copp's Hill
burial-ground. You love to stroll round among the graves that crowd each
other in the thickly peopled soil of that breezy summit. You love to lean
on the freestone slab which lies over the bones of the Mathers,--to read
the epitaph of stout William Clark, "Despiser of Sorry Persons and little
Actions,"--to stand by the stone grave of sturdy Daniel Malcolm and look
upon the splintered slab that tells the old rebel's story,--to kneel by
the triple stone that says how the three Worthylakes, father, mother, and
young daughter, died on the same day and lie buried there; a mystery; the
subject of a moving ballad, by the late BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, as may be seen
in his autobiography, which will explain the secret of the triple
gravestone; though the old philosopher has made a mistake, unless the
stone is wrong.

Not very far from that you will find a fair mound, of dimensions fit to
hold a well-grown man. I will not tell you the inscription upon the
stone which stands at its head; for I do not wish you to be sure of the
resting-place of one who could not bear to think that he should be known
as a cripple among the dead, after being pointed at so long among the
living. There is one sign, it is true, by which, if you have been a
sagacious reader of these papers, you will at once know it; but I fear
you read carelessly, and must study them more diligently before you will
detect the hint to which I allude.

The Little Gentleman lies where he longed to lie, among the old names and
the old bones of the old Boston people. At the foot of his resting-place
is the river, alive with the wings and antennae of its colossal
water-insects; over opposite are the great war-ships, and the heavy guns,
which, when they roar, shake the soil in which he lies; and in the
steeple of Christ Church, hard by, are the sweet chimes which are the
Boston boy's Ranz des Vaches, whose echoes follow him all the world over.

In Pace!

I, told you a good while ago that the Little Gentleman could not do a
better thing than to leave all his money, whatever it might be, to the
you