th his journeys.

Before he drove off he demanded his little boy.

"He must kiss me," said he, "for I'm going to work for him. D'ye hear
that, Jane? This day makes him heir of Huntercombe and Bassett."

The nurse brought word that Master Bassett was not very well this
morning.

"Let us look at him," said Bassett.

He got out of his gig, and went to the nursery. He found his little boy
had a dry cough, with a little flushing.

"It is not much," said he; "but I'll send the doctor over from the
town."

He did so, and himself proceeded up to London.

The doctor came, and finding the boy labored in breathing, administered
a full dose of ipecacuanha. This relieved the child for the time; but
about four in the afternoon he was distressed again, and began to cough
with a peculiar grating sound.

Then there was a cry of dismay--"The croup!" The doctor was gone for,
and a letter posted to Richard Bassett, urging him to come back
directly.

The doctor tried everything, even mercury, but could not check the
fatal discharge; it stiffened into a still more fatal membrane.

When Bassett returned next afternoon, in great alarm, he found the poor
child thrusting its fingers into its mouth, in a vain attempt to free
the deadly obstruction.

A warm bath and strong emetics were now administered, and great relief
obtained. The patient even ate and drank, and asked leave to get up and
play with a new toy he had. But, as often happens in this disorder, a
severe relapse soon came, with a spasm of the glottis so violent and
prolonged that the patient at last resigned the struggle. Then pain
ceased forever; the heavenly smile came; the breath went; and nothing
was left in the little white bed but a fair piece of tinted clay, that
must return to the dust, and carry thither all the pride, the hopes,
the boasts of the stricken father, who had schemed, and planned, and
counted without Him in whose hands are the issues of life and death.

As for the child himself, his lot was a happy one, if we could but see
what the world is really worth. He was always a bright child, that
never cried, nor complained: his first trouble was his last; one day's
pain, then bliss eternal: he never got poisoned by his father's spirit
of hate, but loved and was beloved during his little lifetime; and,
dying, he passed from his Noah's ark to an inheritance a thousand times
richer than Huntercombe, Bassett, and all his cousin's lands.

The little grave