bed over miles of thicket; the myriad purple balls of the
sensitive-plant starred the ground; the atamasco lilies grew whitely,
each one shining all alone, in the wet woods; chocolate-hued orchids
nodded, and the rose-colored ones rang their bells, at the edge of the
barren. The old causeway across the sugar waste was blue with violets,
and Mark carried Carl thither; he would lie there contentedly in the
sunshine for hours, his pale fingers toying with the blue blossoms, his
eyes lifted to the green line of South Devil across the sapphire sky.

One afternoon he fell asleep there, and Mark left him, to cook their
dinner. When he came back, his step-brother's eyes had reason in them
once more, or rather remembrance.

"Old fellow," he said, as Mark, surprised and somewhat alarmed at the
change, sat down beside him, "you got me out of the swamp, I suppose? I
don't remember getting myself out. Now I want to ask something. I'm
going to leave this world in a few days, and try it in another; better
luck next time, you know. What I want to ask is that you'll take me up
and bury me at San Miguel in a little old burying-ground they have
there, on a knoll overlooking the ocean. I don't want to lie here with
the Dons and the Aztecs; and, besides, I particularly want to be carried
through the swamp. Take me through in the canoe, as I went the last
time; it's the easiest way, and there's a trail. And I want to go. And
do not cover my face, either; I want to see. Promise."

Mark promised, and Carl closed his eyes. Then he roused himself again.

"Inquire at the post-office in San Miguel for a letter," he said
drowsily. "Promise." Again Mark promised. He seemed to sleep for some
minutes; then he spoke again.

"I heard that music, you know--heard it all out plainly and clearly," he
said, looking quietly at his brother. "I know the whole, and have sung
it over to myself a thousand times since. I can not write it down _now_.
But it will not be lost."

"Music is never lost, I suppose," answered Mark, somewhat at random.

"Certainly not," said Carl, with decision. "My song will be heard some
time. I'm sure of that. And it will be much admired."

"I hope so."

"You try to be kind always, don't you, old fellow, whether you
comprehend or not?" said the boy, with his old superior smile--the smile
of the artist, who, although he be a failure and a pauper, yet always
pities the wise. Then he slept again. At dawn, peacefully and with a
smi