sy for us to bear to see."

"The hard part is to come, dear. We are glad now to see him out of his
pain--so comfortable as he looks at this moment. The hard part will be
not to hear his little voice any more--never ... But we must not think
of that now. I hope, Mildred, that you are not sorry that George is
dead. I am not, when I think that he may be with father and mother
already."

"Already?"

"Yes--if they are dead. Perhaps they have been pitying poor baby all
the time he has been ill, crying and moaning so sadly; and now he may be
with them, quite happy, and full of joy to meet them again."

"Then they may be seeing us now."

"Yes; they will not forget us, even the first moment that George's
little spirit is with them. Do not let them see us sad, Mildred. Let
them see that we are glad that they should have George, when we could do
nothing for him."

"But we shall miss him so when ... Oliver! He must be buried!"

"Yes. When that is done, we shall miss him sadly. We must expect that.
But we must bear it."

"If we die here," said Mildred, "it will be easy to do without, him for
such a little while. But if we ever get away, if we grow up to be as
old as father and mother, what shall we do, all those years, without
once hearing Geordie laugh, or having him to wake us in the morning?
What long things people's lives are! It will seem as if ours would
never be done, if we have to wait all that time to see Geordie again."

"I wish we were dead!" sighed Oliver. "I am sure, so do I. And dying
is so very easy!"

"The pastor always said there was nothing to be afraid of," said
Oliver--"I mean, for innocent people. And Geordie was so innocent, he
was fit to go directly to God."

"If we die here," said Mildred, "Roger must too. What was the matter
with him just now, do you think? Was he thinking about that?"

"He was very miserable about something. Oh, Mildred, do look! Did you
ever see Geordie look sweeter? Yes, you may have him now."

And Oliver quietly laid the child in Mildred's arms. "Yet," said he,
sighing, "we must bury him."

"Oh, when?" asked Mildred.

"Better do it while his face looks as it does now. To-morrow is Sunday.
We will do no work to-morrow, and bury Geordie."

"Where? How?"

"We will choose the prettiest place we can find, and the quietest."

"I wish the pastor was here," said Mildred. "I never saw a funeral,
except passing one in the road sometimes."

"We nee