the worn
features of old age, and given them a great sweetness and majesty. The
two lovers stood gazing at the corpse for a moment in silent awe--then
Mary whispered softly--

"He seems only asleep! And he looks happy."

"He _is_ happy, dear!--he must be happy!"--and Angus drew her gently
away. "Poor and helpless as he was, still he found a friend in you at
the last, and now all his troubles are over. He has gone to Heaven with
the help and blessing of your kind and tender heart, my Mary! I am sure
of that!"

She sighed, and her eyes were clouded with sadness.

"Heaven seems very far away sometimes!" she said. "And--often I
wonder--what _is_ Heaven?"

"Love!" he answered--"Love made perfect--Love that knows no change and
no end! 'Nothing is sweeter than love; nothing stronger, nothing higher,
nothing broader, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller or better in
heaven and in earth, for love is born of God, and can rest only in God
above all things created.'"

He quoted the beautiful words from the _Imitation of Christ_ reverently
and tenderly.

"Is that not true, my Mary?" he said, kissing her.

"Yes, Angus! For _us_ I know it is true!--I wish it were true for all
the world!"

And then there came a lovely day, perfectly brilliant and intensely
calm, on which "old David," was quietly buried in the picturesque little
churchyard of Weircombe. Mary and Angus together had chosen his
resting-place, a grassy knoll swept by the delicate shadows of a noble
beech-tree, and facing the blue expanse of the ocean. Every man who had
known and talked with him in the village offered to contribute to the
expenses of his funeral, which, however, were very slight. The good
Vicar would accept no burial fee, and all who knew the story of the old
"tramp's" rescue from the storm by Mary Deane, and her gentle care of
him afterwards, were anxious to prove that they too were not destitute
of that pure and true charity which "suffereth long and is kind." Had
David Helmsley been buried as David Helmsley the millionaire, it is more
than likely that he might not have had one sincere mourner at his grave,
with the exception of his friend, Sir Francis Vesey, and his valet
Benson. There would have been a few "business" men,--and some empty
carriages belonging to fashionable folk sent out of so-called "respect";
but of the many he had entertained, assisted and benefited, not one
probably would have taken the trouble to pay him, so much as a la