question was asked, "Where is Rover?" some one
replied, "he staid at Mr. Martin's probably; nothing has been seen of
him here."

He would now be more fondly cherished than ever by the brothers and
sisters of his beloved master; and they resolved to send for him as soon
as possible and bring him back. He had been such a fond and faithful
friend to dear little Arthur, and had contributed so much to his
enjoyment the last year of his life, that henceforth he would be
associated with the image of that dear, dead brother, and would have for
them a tender and mournful interest. When they sent for him, nothing
could be found of the poor creature; no one had seen him, nor did long
and protracted search discover any tidings or traces of him. Had he
wandered off into the woods on that mournful day, and laid down and died
of grief? Had he been stolen and carried off? Had he been accidentally
destroyed? No one could tell. No one ever knew. But now, after long
years have passed away, with the memory of little Arthur Hamilton is
associated that of the faithful Rover; and an allusion to the dear child
so early called away, is sure to bring up the remembrance of Rover, and
of his mysterious end.

CHAPTER XI.

THE TWO GRAVES.

It is twenty-two years since Henry and Arthur Hamilton were buried in
that little grave-yard. Last spring, passing by the spot, I got out of
the carriage and entered the quiet little enclosure. I well remembered
where they lay, after this lapse of years, and without difficulty found
the spot. Two small white stones had been erected, and I sat down on the
grass and spent an half hour in gentle musing, and in half-sad,
half-pleasing memories. Once more the manly form and beaming face of
Henry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringing
laugh. I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans for
usefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly he
had sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he had
entered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of the
sudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires.
But were they blighted? Rather, was not all that was good and lovely in
him, still existing and perfecting? Was he not still loving,
sympathizing, rejoicing? True, that outward form was now dust beneath my
feet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed away
from before our eyes; but the