him poor, weak, and naked before his God.

The proud, the moral, the learned Harold Gwynne, stood dumb before the
mystery of Death. It was too mighty for him. He looked on the dead boy,
and on the living father; then cast his eyes down to the ground, and
muttered within himself, "What should I do here?"

"Read to him--pray with him," whispered Olive. "Speak to him of God--of
heaven--of immortality."

"God--heaven--immortality," echoed Harold, vacantly, but he never
stirred.

"They say that this man has been a great sinner, and an unbeliever. Oh,
tell him that he cannot deceive himself now. Death knells into his ear
that there is a God--there is a hereafter. Mr. Gwynne, oh tell him that,
at a time like this, there is no comfort, no hope, save in God and in
His Word."

Olive had spoken thus in the excitement of the moment; then recovering
herself, she asked pardon for a speech so bold, as if she would fain
teach the clergyman his duty.

"My duty--yes, I must do my duty," muttered Harold Gwynne. And with his
hard-set face--the face he wore in the pulpit--he went up to the father
of the dead child, and said something about "patience," "submission to
the decrees of Providence," and "all trials being sent for good, and by
the will of God."

"Dun ye talk to me of God? I know nought about him, parson--ye never
learned me."

Harold's rigid mouth quivered visibly, but he made no direct answer,
only saying, in the same formal tone, "You go to church--at least, you
used to go--you have heard there about 'God in his judgments remembering
mercy.'"

"Mercy! ye mun easy say that; why did He let the poor lad die i' the
snow, then?"

And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words "The Lord gave and the
Lord taketh away."

"He should ha' takken th' owd mother, then. She's none wanted; but the
dear lad--the only one left out o' six--oh, Reuben, Reuben, wunna ye
never speak to your poor father again?"

He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought
seemed to strike him.

"That's not my lad--my merry little lad!--I say," he cried, starting up
and catching Mr. Gwynne's arm; "I say, you parson that ought to know,
where's my lad gone to?"

Harold Gwynne's head sank upon his breast: he made no answer.
Perhaps--ay, and looking at him, the thought smote Olive with a great
fear--perhaps to that awful question there was no answer in his soul.

John Dent passed him by, and came to the side of Olive Ro