Tom had gone into chapel in sickening anxiety about Arthur, but he came
out cheered and strengthened by those grand words, and walked up alone
to their study. And when he sat down and looked round, and saw Arthur's
straw-hat and cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs, and marked all his
little neat arrangements, not one of which had been disturbed, the tears
indeed rolled down his cheeks; but they were calm and blessed tears, and
he repeated to himself, "Yes, Geordie's eyes are opened--he knows what
it is so to live as that death becomes an infinite blessing. But do I?
Oh, God, can I bear to lose him?"

The week passed mournfully away. No more boys sickened, but Arthur was
reported worse each day, and his mother arrived early in the week. Tom
made many appeals to be allowed to see him, and several times tried to
get up to the sick-room; but the housekeeper was always in the way, and
at last spoke to the Doctor, who kindly, but peremptorily, forbade him.

Thompson was buried on the Tuesday; and the burial service, so soothing
and grand always, but beyond all words solemn when read over a boy's
grave to his companions, brought him much comfort, and many strange new
thoughts and longings. He went back to his regular life, and played
cricket and bathed as usual: it seemed to him that this was the right
thing to do, and the new thoughts and longings became more brave and
healthy for the effort. The crisis came on Saturday, the day week that
Thompson had died, and during that long afternoon Tom sat in his study
reading his Bible and going every half-hour to the housekeeper's room,
expecting each time to hear that the gentle and brave little spirit had
gone home. But God had work for Arthur to do: the crisis passed--on
Sunday evening he was declared out of danger; on Monday he sent a
message to Tom that he was almost well, had changed his room, and was to
be allowed to see him the next day.

It was evening when the housekeeper summoned him to the sick-room.
Arthur was lying on the sofa by the open window, through which the rays
of the western sun stole gently, lighting up his white face and golden
hair. Tom remembered a German picture of an angel which he knew; often
had he thought how transparent and golden and spirit-like it was; and he
shuddered to think how like it Arthur looked, and felt a shock as if his
blood had all stopped short, as he realized how near the other world his
friend must have been to look like that. Nev