ot vay."

After a little, he asked again with great earnestness,--

"How vill it be? If Gott not know ven I die, and if he bees not here,
vill zey keep me von day and von day, vile he come?"

"O yes, dear Jakey." I said; "but God will be here. He is here now. Let
me explain it to you. God is a great Spirit, and he is everywhere. You
have a little spirit in you, too, Jakey, that makes you talk and think
and feel; now, while your spirit is shut up in your little body here, it
cannot see God, but when this little body dies, your spirit will come
out, and then it will see God, and see everything, and have wings and
rise up, like the angels, and fly away to heaven, or Himmel, as you call
it."

I was wondering what Little Jakey was thinking of this, when, after a
moment, he exclaimed,--

"Vy! ven my moder have make me in ze pic-sure, ce make me mit vings, but
ce not say dot I have ze vings, ven I come im Himmel. Heaven bees in
America, but Himmel bees in Germany. My moder go dare, and ce say dot
Gott vill come, and he vill bring me mit him dare, vare ce be. I vish I
come dare now!"

"Darling, you must shut your sweet eyes now and go to sleep."

"No," he said, "ven I sut my eyes, zey not sut, and ven I tink I sleep,
I not sleep. I bees cold; too cold I bees. I tink I die; I tink I go im
Himmel now mit my moder, and mit ze baby, and mit Meme. Vill Gott come,
and vill he fine me here? How vill it be? How--vill--it--be?"

We sprang to him, and, leaning over his little form, felt that his pulse
was really still, and his sweet breath hushed forever.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE LOST CHILD.

BY HENRY KINGSLEY.

Remember? Yes, I remember well that time when the disagreement arose
between Sam Buckley and Cecil, and how it was mended. You are wrong
about one thing, General; no words ever passed between those two young
men; death was between them before they had time to speak.

I will tell you the real story, old as I am, as well as either of them
could tell it for themselves; and as I tell it I hear the familiar roar
of the old snowy river in my ears, and if I shut my eyes I can see the
great mountain, Lanyngerin, bending down his head like a thoroughbred
horse with a curb in his mouth; I can see the long gray plains, broken
with the outlines of the solitary volcanoes Widderin and Monmot. Ah,
General Halbert! I will go back there next year, for I am tired of
England, and I w