l was life-like,--radiant. There was an expression of
heavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since. I had not seen him in
his mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have ever
suffered. Can this be death, thought I?--Ah, there is a stillness too
deep for life! Those closed lips do not move; those eyes do not open;
there is no lingering breath, no beating heart! It is only dust. The
spirit _has_ fled! Beautiful sleeper! There shall be no waking of
thy precious dust till the resurrection morning!

Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant to
me to be near one I had loved in life. I went into the sitting-room,
several neighbors were moving about, but the mother was not there. I
found her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom the
depths of her anguish? Who but He who formed the soul with all its
mysterious capacities for suffering?

The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful in
their summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines;
the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, and
the ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorious
twilight. Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest on
earth; but though the mother's eye was fixed upon the scene, it was
evident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power. What wonder? The
agony was too recent,--the blighting of all her hopes too sudden for
resignation and peace to come into her soul at once. The heavy blow had
fallen, and her heart was crushed! No tear was in her eye, no trembling
in her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive of
utter woe I have seldom seen. What word of consolation could a mortal
speak at such an hour? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and a
stranger may not inter-meddle with its griefs. Let it be alone with God!

James was sent the next morning to bear the heavy tidings to Arthur, and
to bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindred
dust.

Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow. He rode back with
James, scarcely speaking a word. He could not feel that Henry was
_dead_; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rouse
himself. But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed in
speechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents.
Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refuse
the healing bal