d returned no pressure, but as he lay
enshrouded in the garments of the grave, methought he was even more
lovely than when his face was glowing with life. A smile still
wreathed the parted lips, as though the happy spirit had returned to
the tenement of clay, breathing of the blessedness of its glorious
home. Each imprinted a kiss on the placid brow, and as the icy chill
of death met their lips, so full of life and warmth, the reality of
their loss was felt by all. Gary Lincoln lingered until she placed
within those little hands a cluster of white rose-buds--"Flowers, pale
flowers"--they were love's last gift.

Now came the hopeless anguish of the last look--the suspension of
almost life, as the dear remains are lowered to their
resting-place--and, worse than all, the hollow, maddening sound of the
falling earth upon the coffin, sealing the doom of the bereaved,
making complete their misery. They laid him to rest amid the bloom and
shade of Mount Auburn, and his grave is a shrine around which those
who loved him come, bringing ever with them the offering of gentle
thoughts and pleasant memories of him who sleeps below. Little hands
deck it with garlands, and sweet Cary Lincoln has placed a tuft of
early violets above the sacred spot--for, said she, "Willie loved
violets so well."

For months after his death, during the "long bright summer hours," a
child was seen almost daily to visit his grave, lingering when all had
gone. It was Lillias--and I thought if the departed spirit were
hovering near, how often it would echo those words, "_They_ are all
gone, yet _thou_, my sweet Lillias, art with me still."

One year had elapsed, and a funeral train wound again through Mount
Auburn, pausing at the grave of Willie. Lillias was no more. She
ceased not to mourn for her brother, and during her last illness she
spoke of little, save that she should find him in heaven. Once more
that angel-mother sat by a dying child, breathing words of holy hope
and trust, and her eye grew bright, and her heart was warm, as she
spoke of a joyful reunion in heaven.

"Mamma," said the child, "we will keep a place for you and dear papa,
and will you come soon?"

Years have since passed, but often at the holy twilight hour those
gentle children are with me still; and when my rapt soul pierces the
azure vault, I seem to see Willie in angel robes, and listen,
entranced, to the tones of spirit-melody from his tiny golden harp--a
form as radiant a