th
came lightly in she could see that room lit up as it were with the
early sunbeams. It was an old-fashioned room;--the windows with chintz
shades, the floor painted, with a single strip of rag carpet; the old
low-post bed-stead, with its check blue and white spread, the
high-backed splinter chairs, told of life that had made but little
progress in modern improvement. And Jonathan Fax himself, lean,
long-headed, and lantern-jawed, looked grimmer than ever under his new
veil of solemn feeling. He sat by the window.

The wood fire in the low fireplace flickered and fell with its changing
light, on all; but within the warm glow a little group told of life
that _had_ made progress--progress which though but yet begun, was to
go on its fair course through all the ages of eternity!

Little Johnny sat in his teacher's lap, one arm round his neck, and his
weary little head resting as securely on Mr. Linden's breast as if it
had been a woman's. The other hand moved softly over the cuff of that
black sleeve, or twined its thin fingers in and out the strong hand
that was clasped round him. Sometimes raising his eyes, Johnny put some
question, or asked for "talk;" his own face then much the brighter of
the two,--Faith could see the face that bent over him not only touched
with its wonted gravity, which the heavenly seal set there, but moved
and shaken in its composure by the wistful eyes and words of the little
boy. The answering words were too low-spoken for her to hear. She could
see how tenderly the child's caresses were returned,--not the mother
whose care Johnny had never known, could have given the little head
gentler rest. Nay, not so good,--unless she could have given the little
heart such comfort. For Johnny was in the arms of one who knew well
that road to the unseen land--who had studied it; and now as the child
went on before him, could still give him words of cheer, and shew him
the stepping-stones through the dark river. It seemed to Faith as if
the river were already in sight,--as if somewhat of

"that strange, unearthly grace
Which crowns but once the children of our race--"

already rested upon Johnny's fair brow. Yet he looked brighter than
yesterday, bright with a very sweet clear quietness now.

Faith stood still one minute--and another; then pulling off her hood,
she came in with a footfall so noiseless that it never brought Mr.
Fax's head from the window, and knelt down by the side of that group.