rtainty that we shall be a great deal happier in heaven; but we
cling despairingly to the familiar things of this life. God pity the
people who find it so hard to believe what he says, and who are afraid
to die, and are afraid of the things they do not understand! I kept
thinking over and over of what Mrs. Wallis had said: 'A world of change
and loss!' What should we do if we did not have God's love to make up
for it, and if we did not know something of heaven already?

It seemed very doleful that everybody should look on the dark side of
the Widow Wallis's flitting, and I tried to suggest to her some of the
pleasures and advantages of it, once when I had a chance. And indeed
she was proud enough to be going away with her rich son; it was not
like selling her goods because she was too poor to keep the old home
any longer. I hoped the son would always be prosperous, and that the
son's wife would always be kind, and not ashamed of her, or think she
was in the way. But I am afraid it may be a somewhat uneasy idleness,
and that there will not be much beside her knitting-work to remind her
of the old routine. She will even miss going back and forward from the
old well in storm and sunshine; she will miss looking after the
chickens, and her slow walks about the little place, or out to a
neighbour's for a bit of gossip, with the old brown checked
handkerchief over her head; and, when the few homely, faithful old
flowers come up next year by the door-step, there will be nobody to
care any thing about them.

I said good-by, and got into the wagon, and Georgie clambered in after
me with a look of great importance, and we drove away. He was very
talkative: the unusual excitement of the day was not without its
effect. He had a good deal to tell me about the people I had seen,
though I had to ask a good many questions.

"Who was the thin old fellow, with the black coat, faded yellow-green
on the shoulders, who was talking to Skipper Down about the dog-fish?"

"That's old Cap'n Abiah Lane," said Georgie; "lives over toward Little
Beach,--him that was cast away in a fog in a dory down to the Banks
once; like to have starved to death before he got picked up. I've
heard him tell all about it. Don't look as if he'd ever had enough to
eat since!" said the boy grimly. "He used to come over a good deal
last winter, and go out after cod 'long o' father and me. His boats
all went adrift in a big storm in November, and he neve