m of tears.

CHAPTER VII.

THE GATHERING.

It was thought best to lay Henry's beloved form in the earth on the day
following his death. It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days,
August often brings. Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a cloud
dimmed the sky. One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, with
noiseless step. Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in the
house of death. Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked with
tearful eyes on his peaceful form. The life-like glow had passed away
from his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearly
visible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon,
diffused over every feature. Aged men and women who had known him from a
child, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched away
from life. The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one from
the adjoining town were there. Both had known Henry, and both had loved
him. Both spoke with tearful eyes and quivering lip of his worth and
loveliness. Holy words of prayer were spoken,--the bereaved mother and
weeping children were commended to God, the only refuge in this hour of
darkness, and fervent intercessions were offered, united with grateful
thanksgivings for all that had been enjoyed in the past, and for all the
cheering hopes which brightened the future. The hymn

"Why should we mourn departing friends,
Or shake at death's alarms?"

was read and sung.

Once more the children were all together under the roof where they had
often met; all save the son whose home was now in a sunnier clime. But
how unlike was this to their last joyful gathering! Hours of rejoicing,
and hours of mourning, ye are strangely blended in the experience of
human hearts.

The little village burying-ground was not far distant. A grave was
opened there, for him who but one short week ago was as full of life, of
bounding vigor and of high hopes, as the strongest there.

"Oh, had it been but told you then,
To mark whose lamp was dim;
From out the ranks of these young men
Would ye have singled _him_?

"Whose was the sinewy arm that flung
Defiance to the ring?
Whose shout of victory loudest rung?
Yet not for glorying.

"Whose heart in generous thought and deed,
No rivalry could brook?
And yet distinction claiming not;
There lies he,--go and look!

"Tread lightly, comrade