his own room and said he would take care of it himself."

"And did they let him?" I asked.

"Let him. I just guess they did. They couldn't help it. You see he'd
been in, monkeyin' round the smallpox already--so they had to. And he
wrapped the kid up in a blanket and took it to his room. They say his
light's never been out at night since."

"He has not taken the disease himself, has he?" I enquired.

"Oh, no; leastwise, I never heard tell of it. But them was queer actions
for a young fellow, wasn't they? No accountin' for tastes, as the
fellow said! Can you understand it yourself, sir?"

"I think I can," was my reply; "let us hurry on," and in a few minutes
we were at Issie's house.

Little Issie had long since snuggled down in her own separate place in
my heart; she was indeed a favourite with all who knew her--but I saw as
I stepped into the room that God loved her best of all. The white thin
hands were tightly held, one in her father's, the other in her mother's,
as though they would detain her; but the angels heeded not and went on
with the preparations for her flight. These were almost complete when I
arrived; Issie alone knew that they were of God's providing, for the
face she turned to me was full of childish sweetness, and her smile was
touched with other light.

"I'm glad you're home," she whispered, as I bent low beside her. "Please
don't go away again"--and as I kissed her she was gone.

Her curls were gold, still gold, though she was gone. As we stood
weeping beside the precious dust the sun arose, still arose, though she
was gone. And his first errand was to the broken heart. Swift to the
window flew his first-flung rays, like eager couriers who hear the cry
of need. And entering in, unbidden, they set God's brighter seal of love
upon the golden tresses. Up and down among the glowing strands, they
wandered, smiling at God's gain, smiling still, though she was gone.
Unafraid, they caressed the unconscious locks, anointing them for their
burial.

When I went out, the winter seemed past and gone; I knew then what made
these snowbound hearts so warm.

* * * * *

"Margaret has a new sorrow," said my wife, soon after my arrival home.

"What is it?"

"A young woman and her child from Ireland--"

"Yes," I interrupted, "I heard about it; the driver told me. Does
Margaret seem to fret herself about it?"

"I don't know," answered her mother, "but I am afraid it has made