[Illustration: ARTHUR AND HIS DOG. ] ARTHUR HAMILTON, AND HIS DOG. _Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, andapproved by the Committee of Publication_. 1851. ARTHUR HAMILTON. CHAPTER I. LEAVING HOME. One pleasant October evening, Arthur Hamilton was at play in front ofthe small, brown cottage in which he lived. He and his brother James, were having a great frolic with a large spotted dog, who was performinga great variety of antics, such as only well-educated dogs understand. But Rover had been carefully initiated into the mysteries of making abow while standing on his hind legs, tossing pieces of bread off hisnose, putting up his fore-paws with a most imploring look, and piteouswhine, which the boys called "begging for money, " and when a chip hadbeen given him, he uttered a most energetic bow-wow-wow, which theyregarded as equivalent to "thank you, sir, " and walked off. While they were thus amusing themselves, their mother was sitting on therude piazza which ran along the front of the cottage, now looking at themerry children, and then thoughtfully gazing at the long shadows whichwere stretching across the road. Mrs. Hamilton was a woman of wonderfulstrength, and energy, both of body and mind; and she had been sustainedfor many years by the Christian's hope; but there was now a heavy burdenresting on her soul, which even her native energy and Christian trustwere unable to remove. She had known many days of worldly prosperity, since she had resided in that little cottage; but of late, trials hadmultiplied; and days and nights of heart-crushing sorrow had beenappointed unto her. He who should have shared life's trials andlightened their weight, had proved recreant to his trust, and was nowwandering, she knew not whither; and poverty was staring the desertedfamily in the face. Debts had accumulated, and though Mrs. Hamilton haddone all that could be done to meet the emergency, though she hadlabored incessantly, and borne fatigue and self-denial, with a brave andcheerful spirit, it had been found necessary to leave the home so dearto her, --the home where she had been brought a fair and youthful bride;where she had spent many happy years, and which was endeared to her byso many sweet and hallowed, as well as painful, associations. Every footof the green meadow, the orchard on the hill, and the pasture lyingbeyond, was dear to her; and it was painful to see them pass into otherhands. But that heaviest of all the trials which poverty brings to themother's heart, was hers also. The conviction had been forced upon her, that she must separate the children, and find other homes for such aswere old enough to do any thing for themselves. This necessaryseparation had now taken place. Her eldest son had gone to a distantsouthern state, carrying with him, his mother's prayers and blessings;and a strong arm, and stout heart, with which to win himself a name anda place in his adopted home. John, the second, still remained with her, assisting, by his unceasing toil, to earn a supply for their dailywants. Henry, the third son, a bright-eyed youth of sixteen, hadattracted the notice of his pastor, and by his advice and assistance, had been placed on the list of the beneficiaries of the AmericanEducation Society, and was now at an Academy, preparing for College. James was living with a farmer in the neighborhood, and was now on thegreen with Arthur. These changes had already taken place, and now, couldshe part with Arthur, --her sweet-tempered, gentle Arthur? That was thequestion which agitated and saddened her. An offer had been made her, byMr. Martin, who lived in an adjoining town, and whom she knew to be anexcellent man. He wished to take Arthur, and keep him till he wastwenty-one; would clothe him, send him to school, and treat him as oneof his own family; training him to habits of industry and economy. Couldshe hope any thing better for her darling boy? There was a youngerbrother and two sisters still remaining at home, and embarrassed as shewas, ought she not to be grateful for such an opening, and thankfullyavail herself of it? Such was the view another might take of thesubject, but to her it was unspeakably painful to think of theseparation. Arthur was ten years old; but he was a modest and timid boy, whose sensitive nature had led him to cling more closely to his mother'sside than his bolder and more active brothers. Mrs. Hamilton knew that this was no time for the indulgence ofsentiment; she knew that _duty_ must be done, even though everychord of her heart quivered with agony. After much consideration andearnest prayer, she had concluded to let him go, and the thought ofsending him away from her, and all he loved, among entire strangers, waswhat made her so sorrowful. She strove to calm herself by thereflection, that she had done what seemed to be right, and byremembering the blessed promises of God's Holy Word to the fatherless, and to all those who put their trust in Him. With a cheerful voice, shecalled the boys, telling James it was time for him to go home, asCaptain L. , with whom he lived, was a very particular man, and would bedispleased if he staid out beyond the proper time. Mrs. Hamilton's sonshad been trained to obedience, and James never thought of lingering andloitering for half an hour, as I have seen some boys do, after beingtold to go. He just gave Rover a good pat on the back, and saying ahasty "good-night" to his mother and Arthur, he ran home. Arthur was alone with his mother, and she told him of the arrangementshe had made for him, and the reasons for it. Arthur was quite overcomeat the idea of a separation from the mother he loved so dearly, andexclaimed-- "Oh, mother, don't send me away from home, I can earn something, andwill work very hard if you will only let me stay. Please mother, let mestay with you!" "It is quite as painful to me, Arthur, " said his mother, "to part fromyou, as it can be to you; but I think it is best for you; and I am sureyou will not increase my trials by complaining. Be a brave boy, Arthur, and learn to submit cheerfully to what God sends upon you. Trust in Him, and he will bless you wherever you are. Always remember He watches overyou, and loves you. I think Mr. And Mrs. Martin will be kind to you, andI hope you will make yourself very useful to them. They are quite aged, and a pair of young hands and feet can be of great service to them. Always do cheerfully whatever they wish of you, even if not quite soagreeable at the moment. Always be respectful in your manners to them, and to all others with whom you come in contact, and try to make themhappier. A little boy may do a good deal to make others happy, orunhappy. I hope you will try to do what is right at all times, and Idoubt not you will be contented and happy there, after you becomeaccustomed to it. " Arthur had dried his tears, but his heart was heavy as he laid down inhis bed that night, and when he was alone, his sobs burst forth afresh. It seemed to him very cruel to send him among strange people, and hethought he should rather go without much to eat or wear, than to leavehome. About ten days after, John carried Arthur to Mr. Martin's. Mrs. Hamiltonhad made his clothes look as neat and tidy as possible, by thoroughlywashing and mending them, (for she could not afford to get any newones), and John had made him a nice box, in which they were allcarefully placed. Arthur tried to be a brave boy, as his mother wished; but he could noteat his breakfast that morning. Every mouthful seemed to choke him; andwhen he bade his mother and the children good-bye, the tears would comefast and thick into his eyes, in spite of all he could do to prevent it. Tears were in his mother's eyes too, but she spoke cheerfully. "Well, Arthur, " said she, "it will be only six weeks to Thanksgiving, and Mr. Martin has promised you shall come home then; and how glad weshall all be to see you!" It was a sunny, autumn morning. The white frost lay on the grass and thefences, and the north-wind was chilly, as the boys drove on. Roverpersisted in following them, and finally Arthur begged John to take himin, and carry him over. Rover was delighted, and laid himself down inthe bottom of the wagon, and looked affectionately into Arthur's face. "Poor Rover, " said he, "you will miss me I know; and I shall miss you agreat deal more. I wonder if Mr. Martin has a dog?" "I guess not, " said John, "for he took no notice of Rover, and everybody who likes dogs speaks to Rover, because he is so large andhandsome. I am afraid you will be homesick at first over there, but wemust do the best we can, for these are hard times. I don't see how wecan do any thing more than pay the rent this year, after all my summer'swork; for the dry weather ruined the potatoes, and corn won't bring morethan fifty cents a bushel; and how we are to live, I don't see. I am notafraid for myself, but it is too bad for mother, and the little ones;so, if you are homesick, you must try to get over it again, and not comeback, or let mother know it, for she has just as much trouble as she canbear already. " "Oh, no, " said Arthur, "I won't be homesick, I _will_ be a braveboy, as mother calls it, and never complain, let what will come; but Ido wish we were not so poor. " "I don't know, " said John, "I think poor folks that work hard, enjoyabout as much as anybody, after all. It isn't a disgrace to be poor, ifwe are only honest, and do what is right; and you know the minister saidlast Sabbath, that Jesus Christ when he lived on the earth was a poorman, and worked with his hands for a living. He won't despise the poornow he has gone into heaven again; for he will remember how he was pooronce. Mother says, nothing will break her heart but living to see us dosome wicked deed, and that she could not survive that. We must becareful not to break her heart, musn't we, Arthur?" So the lads rode on till noon; and when the sun shone out warmly, theforest-trees looked more magnificent in its golden light, than KingSolomon in all his glory. There was the crimson-leaved maple, and theyellow beach, and the variegated oak, mingled with the fresh greenhemlocks and pines. There was something in the quiet, and deep stillnessof the woods, which made the boys silent, as they rode through; theyfelt the influence of its exceeding beauty, though they could not haveexpressed it in words; for God always speaks to us through his works, and if we will listen to the voice, our hearts will be softened, andpleasant and profitable thoughts will arise. It was two in the afternoon, when John and Arthur reached Mr. Martin's. He was not at home, but Mrs. Martin received them kindly, saying, "sheexpected they would come that day. " She was a grave-looking old lady, who wore spectacles, and the inquisitive manner in which she looked overthe top of them into Arthur's face, quite frightened the little fellow, and he could only reply in very low monosyllables to the questions sheasked him; so John gave her such information as she desired. Mrs. Martinshowed them the small chamber in which Arthur was to sleep, and Johncarried up the wooden box, and put it down in one corner. After stayinghalf an hour, John thought he must go. A sense of the loneliness of hissituation among strangers, where no one familiar voice would be heard, and not one familiar object seen, came over the heart of poor Arthurwith such force at this moment, that he burst into a flood of tears, exclaiming-- "Oh, don't leave me here, John! don't leave me, I cannot stay. " Brushingthe tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into theyard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck, -- "But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming backwith me? How it would distress her! Indeed you _must_ stay, and tryto be contented. I think it looks like a pleasant place here. This is avery pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martinwill let you have a bed in it next spring. " "But it is living here all alone, which I dread, " said Arthur. "You know mother says we are never all alone, " said John. "God will bewith you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve ofyour conduct, and love you. Only six weeks too, remember, till you comehome. Just think how soon they will be gone!" Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wonderedwhat was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laidhis paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying-- "Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company. " "I wish you could, " said John, "but I don't think it would be right toleave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him. " John now untied his horse, saying, "Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur. " Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me thatnothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving littleArthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now, "said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly. " Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into thewagon, and drove off. It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover andthe children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; noaffectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. And Mrs. Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy witha child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardshipimposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had beenaccustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-heartedboy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in hisnew home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicateplant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from therough chilling blast. None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the sufferingsuch a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Suchan one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when thereis throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenestsensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, ifnecessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougherelements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase hiscourage, and prepare him for the conflicts and struggles of after years;but oh, fond mother, keep that delicate, timid child which nestles tothy side with such confiding trust, which trembles at the voice of astranger, and shrinks like the mimosa, from a rude and unfamiliar touch, under thine own sheltering roof-tree, for a time at least; there seek todevelope and strengthen his delicate nature into more manly strength andvigor; there judiciously repress excessive sensibility, and increaseconfidence in himself and others; if it can possibly be avoided, do notexpose him, while a child, to the tender mercies of those who do notunderstand his peculiar temperament, and who, however kind theirfeelings, cannot possess his confidence. We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's. They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get overit; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with greatalacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was themost quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthurthought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravelyto rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "Theyshall never hear me complain, " he said to himself, "and dear mother tooshall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a_brave_ boy. " Every fortnight a letter came from home, and though Arthur read it withstreaming eyes, it was a precious treasure. He would read them over andover, till he seemed to hear his mother's voice once more, and feel herloving hand upon his head. He answered them; but wrote only a few words, saying, he was well, and the other common place remarks children usuallywrite. He was not happy, but he was calmer now, and did not _every_night cry himself to sleep. The visit at home, was a bright, cheeringspot, to which he often looked forward; and as week after week passedaway, slowly indeed, he rejoiced in the certainty that thatlong-looked-for period was getting nearer and nearer, and _would_come at last. CHAPTER II. THANKSGIVING. Thanksgiving! dear, delightful Thanksgiving! What a happy sound in allchildish ears! What visions of roast turkeys, plum puddings, and pumpkinpies rise before us at the name! What hosts of rosy cheeks, sparklingeyes, nicely-combed little heads, and bounding feet; what blazing firesand warm parlors; what large stuffed rocking-chairs, withcomfortable-looking grandpapas and grandmamas in them; what huge bundlesof flannel, out of which, plump blue-eyed babies roll; what stuffedhoods and cloaks, from which little boys and girls emerge; and betterthan all, what warm hearts brimming with affection; what sweet songs ofjoyful praise; what untold depths of "sacred and home-felt delight, "belong to thee, dear, glad, Thanksgiving-day! Let us look in at Mrs. Hamilton's on Thanksgiving eve. Every thing inher little sitting-room is just as clean as it can possibly be; the fireburns brightly, and the blaze goes dancing and leaping merrily up thechimney, diffusing throughout the room an aspect of cheerfulness. Henry, "the student, " as John calls him, is at home; for of course it isvacation in his school; and his mother looks with pride on the manlyform and handsome face of this her favorite boy, who has certainly growntaller and handsomer since his last visit at home, in her eyes at least;and who is now entertaining himself by teaching his pet, Emma, (a littlegirl of four, ) to repeat the Greek alphabet, and whose funnypronunciation of Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, &c. , is received with pealsof laughter by the other children. "We will make a famous Greek scholar of you yet, " said Harry, "whoknows, darling Em, but you may be a great poetess before you die? Butyou won't be a blue stocking, I hope!" "My stockings are _red_, " said the unconscious Emma; "mother don'tmake me _blue_ stockings, " sticking out her little feet by way ofconfirming the fact. Charlie, the baby, as he is called, now almost three years old, hasdonned his new red flannel dress, and white apron, in honor of the day. James is cracking butternuts in one corner, and a well-heaped milk-panis the trophy of his persevering toil. Lucy, the eldest sister, has comehome, and she and Mary are deep in some confidential conversation theopposite side of the room, stopping every now and then to listen, as ifexpecting to hear some pleasant sound. Among them all, the mother moveswith a beaming face and quiet step, completing the arrangements of thetable, which is standing at the backside of the room, covered by a snowycloth, and decorated with the best plates, and china cups and saucers, the relics of more prosperous days. "Hurra, they've come! they've come!" said James, tossing down hishammer, and bounding over the pan of nuts; "that's our wagon, I know. " All are at the door. 'Tis they! Yes, 'tis John and Arthur, our dearlittle Arthur home again! How they all seize upon and kiss him! How themother holds him to her heart with tearful eyes! Ah, this is joy; suchjoy as can be purchased only by separation and suffering. Who thatlooked now on Arthur's beaming eye, and glowing cheek, could dream thatthey had been clouded by sorrow, or dimmed by tears? Of all the happy groups that were assembled in our old Commonwealth thatnight, few we think were happier than this. Rover was by no means asilent witness of the joy. He would not leave Arthur's side a moment, and constantly sought to attract his notice. Arthur had been always veryfond of Rover, almost more so than the other children, though he was agreat favorite with all, and Rover had missed him since he went awayalmost as much as Arthur had missed Rover; so it was a joyful re-unionon both sides. He was a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, withshaggy hair. He had beautiful white spots, and long, silky ears, and wasa very good-natured dog. He would let Charlie get on his back, and ridehim all about the yard; and the boys had made a little sled to whichthey fastened Rover, and Emma, well wrapped up in her hood and cloak, with her woolen mittens on, would have quite long rides after him;sometimes in the yard, and sometimes in the street. How much the children had to talk about that night; how many stories totell Arthur, and questions to ask him in return! Arthur had decidedbeforehand not to make any complaint, or to say he was unhappy, orhomesick; and indeed in the pleasure of being at home again, he almostforgot he had ever been unhappy. He was to stay till Monday morning, andto him those four days seemed a long period of enjoyment, quite too longto be saddened yet by the thoughts of separation. The night settled downon the inmates of the cottage, and sweet sleep sealed up all eyes; eventhose of the weary mother. The year had brought many trials, and someheavy ones, but there was in spite of them all, much to be thankful for, especially that all her beloved children had been preserved to her, andwere so healthy, so promising, and so likely to prove blessings to her. Ah, how long afterwards did she recall that merry evening, and thosebeaming faces, with a heavy heart! CHAPTER III. THE SEPARATION. Thanksgiving is over! Its dinner, its frolics, its boisterous mirth, areall in the past! It is Sabbath evening. A sadness seems to hang aboutthe party. Lucy had returned to her aunt, with whom she lived. James wasto go home that evening. Henry and Arthur in the morning. They with Johnand their mother, sat thoughtfully around the fire; the younger childrenwere in bed; little was said by any one, but Mrs. Hamilton, wishing tohave a more private interview with Arthur, took him to her room. Thereshe questioned him about his new home more particularly. To heramazement, the moment she spoke of his returning, he burst into a floodof tears. Poor Arthur! he meant to be brave, and to hide his troubles, but now that his heart had been warmed by the light of affection andhome-joy, the idea of going back was terrible to him. He could notdeceive, or keep back any thing. With passionate earnestness, hebesought his mother to let him stay at home. "I will only eat a potatoe and a piece of bread, if you will let mestay, mother; indeed I won't be much of a burden to you, but oh, dearmother, don't send me back there, " cried he, sobbing as if his heartwould break. This was a sad trial for Mrs. Hamilton, and she paused to think what wasright, and to ask for guidance from on high. It seemed to her thatArthur's dissatisfaction arose from his own weakness of spirit, ratherthan from anything really disagreeable in his situation. They were kindto him; he was not over-worked; could attend a good school; and would itnot be an injury to him, to indulge this excessive love for home, andyield to his entreaties? Would he ever be a man, with courage to facethe storms of life, if she, with a woman's weakness, allowed herfeelings to prevail over her judgment? It must not be. She must be firmfor his sake; cruel as it seemed, it was real kindness, and she trustedhe would soon be contented. If not, she could then change herdetermination if she wished. So she told him once more, that duty andnot present enjoyment was to be consulted; that she still thought it wasbest for him to stay at Mr. Martin's, and she still believed he wouldfind contentment and peace there, in doing his duty. She did not upbraidhim, but told him very tenderly, she wished him to acquire more strengthof purpose, and to gain the habit of controlling his feelings. If he didnot, he could never be happy or useful, and it would be sad indeed togrow up a weak, timid and useless being, who had not strength ofcharacter enough to pursue what was right, if difficulties lay in thepath. "Whenever you are lonely and sad, " said she, "think of me, and howmuch pleasure you are giving me by staying and doing your duty. Think ofyour Father in heaven, who watches over you, and will be well-pleasedwhen you try to subdue your faults. Never forget to ask Him for strengthto do right, and He will give it, if you ask in sincerity. Rememberalways that He has placed us in the world to become his children, andgrow holy; and it is often through trial, we are made better. You willbe a better boy if you conquer your weakness, and become cheerful andcontented, than you could have been, had no sacrifice been required ofyou. My dear child, I do believe God will bless you, and enable you toconquer. " With such words Mrs. Hamilton sought to soothe and strengthen her child, while her own heart was throbbing with painful emotions. She could notsleep that night, for her heart yearned over her darling boy, and shelonged to fold him under the shelter of a loving home. She felt that sheneeded in her own heart more of that perfect submission to God's willwhich she enjoined on others, and it was only by earnest and humbleprayer that she could calm her troubled spirit, and feel trust andconfidence that all was for the best. But she had found prayer to be abalm for the wounded spirit in many an hour of suffering, and she nowrealized the sweetness of that inestimable privilege. "Oh not a gift or blessing With this can we compare; The power which he hath given, To pour our souls in prayer. " CHAPTER IV. THE PRESENT. Arthur left home early Monday morning. It was a cold, dreary daywithout, and a dreary one within to Mrs. Hamilton. She had no unoccupiedmoments in which to sit down, and pore over her troubles; but amid allher cares and labors, the pleading, sorrowful face of her boy would risebefore her, like an accusing angel. She feared she had shown him toolittle sympathy in his sufferings, and had too much repressed themanifestation of his feelings. She seemed to herself, as herimagination followed her weeping boy, a cruel, heartless mother; andagain only in prayer could she find relief and peace, and even then, aweight still rested upon her spirits. A few days after Arthur's departure, an idea occurred to Mrs. Hamiltonwhich she was sure would give him pleasure. This was to send him Rover, to keep as his own. But would the children be willing to part with theirpet and playfellow? And if they were, would Mr. Martin give his consent? That very evening she proposed it to the children, and she was pleasedto find how willing they were to make some sacrifice for their littlebrother's sake. Even Emma, who loved so dearly to play with him, andride on the sled after him, seemed ready to part with him when she foundit would make Arthur happy. Yet it was with a mournful voice, she toldhim, as she patted him and stroked his long ears, "You must be a good doggie, Rover, and make my brother Arthur happy. Hebe good brother, and you must be good doggie too. Won't you, Rover, goodfellow?" Mrs. Hamilton wrote to Mr. Martin stating Arthur's fondness for the dog, and that if he had no objections, they should like to give him to Arthurfor his own; but added, that she did not wish to do so unless perfectlyagreeable to him. She was quite surprised to see Mr. Martin coming in atthe door on the second morning after the letter was sent. He said he hadcome within three miles on business, and thought he would just rideround, and take the dog. "I fear you may find him troublesome, sir, " said Mrs. H. , "for mychildren have allowed him to take great liberties with them. " "Not a bit! Not a bit!" said the old gentleman; "to be sure my wifedon't take to dogs overmuch, but you see, the boy is a little home-sick, and we want him to feel more contented, if we can; so I was very glad totake the dog. He is a noble fellow, on my word. How old is he?" "Two next Spring, " said Mrs. H. , "and he is a very kind, faithfulcreature, I assure you. We all love him very much. " Emma and Charlie, who had just comprehended that the stranger-gentlemanwas going to take away the dog, began to look very grave indeed. Emmawas no martyr, to suffer calmly for conscience' sake, much less littlewhite-headed Charlie, who obstinately asserted with a most heroic air, that "nobody should tarry off _his_ doggie. " "But your dear brother Arthur is all alone, and he cries at night whenhe goes to bed, because he has no brother nor sister there, not even apussie or a dog. He won't cry if Rover is with him. Don't you want Roverto go?" "Esmaam I do; but I want Rover to stay here with me too. " "But he can't make Arthur happy then. Arthur, poor, dear Arthur, willhave nobody to comfort him. " "Rover _must_ go, " said Emma, sorrowfully; "but I wish there weretwo Rovers, one for Arthur, and one for me. " It was a pretty sight to see these children put their fat, little armsround Rover's neck, and hug him over and over again, and kiss his roughface with their rosy mouths, and let their sunny curls lie among hisshaggy locks. Great tears rolled down Emma's cheeks as the dog went outof the door; but though Emma was no martyr, she was a warm-hearted, generous little girl, and she did not want to keep the dog away fromArthur, though so sorry to part with it. "We have got you and I, and two kitties, haven't we Charlie, " said she, "and sister Mary and brother John. " "And your mother beside, who I hope is worth counting, " said Mrs. Hamilton. "You can spare Rover very well, I think. " After Arthur left home on that dark, cheerless Monday morning, he feltvery sorry indeed that he had made any complaint to his mother; for heknew that by doing so, he had given her trouble, instead of being acomfort and help to her, in the midst of her sorrows. Besides, he hadbroken his resolution; for he had most firmly resolved not to complain;he had yielded to the strong impulse of the moment, and now he wasafraid he never should gain self-control. But there was nothing to bedone, but to make stronger efforts to be contented and useful in his newhome. He humbly asked God to enable him to do better, and to pardon theweakness of the past. Whenever a little boy desires with his whole soul to do right, and praysto God for strength, he will certainly find he can, however difficult itmay seem at first. God, our kind heavenly Father, has promised to giveus his Holy Spirit if we ask Him for it in sincerity; and however youngyou are, or weak, or ignorant; however far away from earthly friends, orhuman sympathy, He will hear the softest word you utter, the faintestbreathing of a silent prayer, and will come into your soul and bless it. That glorious spirit is infinite. It gives life to the archangel hosts;it blesses the weakest, and lowliest child. Arthur found that by making a great effort, a _very_ great one, hecould restrain his tears and turn his thoughts away from his owntroubles, and indeed from himself entirely. He had a few books, and hebecame fond of reading them. Sometimes Mrs. Martin would ask him to readaloud, and though she seldom wished to hear any thing but newspapers, that was a diversion of his thoughts. Arthur had a clear, pleasantvoice, and read very well for a child of his age; and every time he readaloud, he was improving himself in this part of education. Anotherpleasant change was, going to school. Arthur had dreaded this very much, because all the scholars would be strangers to him, and he had neverbeen to school without older brothers and sisters with him. Being so shyand timid, he did not form acquaintances so readily as some boys; but intwo or three weeks, he had become quite friendly with some, particularlyTheodore Roberts. Theodore was two years older than Arthur, but recitedin the same classes. He passed Mr. Martin's on his way to school, andusually called for Arthur. They walked about half a mile, partly througha wood, to reach the school-house; a little brown building, with onlyone room in it. Theodore was a bold, generous-hearted boy, and hisinfluence over Arthur was very good; while Arthur's gentler nature andmore refined manners were of service to Theodore, who was not veryparticular about little things. One night, as Theodore and Arthur were coming home from school, theystopped to look at a squirrel's nest in a hollow tree, just in the wood. A pretty striped squirrel was running up and down a tree at a littledistance, whisking his bushy tail, and watching them with his large, bright eyes. They found a large store of nuts in the hollow tree, andTheodore proposed they should take them out. "Oh no, no!" said Arthur, "would you have the poor squirrel starve?" "Oh, he'll find enough to eat, never fear, " said Theodore, "a squirrelis too cunning to starve. " "But it isn't right to take them, Theodore. Just think how many hoursthe little fellow worked, and how hard he tugged to get them all inhere, and they are _his_ now, I'm sure; he has a good right tothem, and I wouldn't any sooner rob him of his nuts, than I would a manof his money!" "La, what a fuss you make about it;" said Theodore with a loud laugh, "but since you feel so bad, I'll let his squirrelship alone, this time. " "Thank you, " said Arthur, "and now, Theodore, I must say if you had doneit, I wouldn't have liked to play with you so well as I did before, forI should think you were a cruel boy, and I couldn't love you. " "You are a curious fellow, " said Theodore, with another loud laugh. Suchlessons were not lost on Theodore, for though he had had very littleinstruction in morals or manners, he had a heart in the right placeunder his rough outside. "We'll begin our stone house to-night, if you'll come in, Theodore, "said Arthur, as they reached Mr. Martin's gate. "No, I can't stop to-night. Sister Susan is coming to see us, and I wantto get home early. " This made Arthur think of _his_ sisters, and it was with rather aheavy heart he entered the yard. Mr. Martin stood near the door, and asArthur passed him, he said, "I have got a present in the house for you!" "A present for _me_, sir!" said Arthur, "Yes, for you; and something you'll like too, I guess. What do you thinkit is?" Rover, who knew the sound of Arthur's voice began to barkloudly, and in a moment the door was opened, and he was in Arthur'sarms. Never was there a more joyful meeting between old friends. Arthurwas so excited that he laughed and cried at once, and said all kinds ofwild things to Rover, who in his turn, kept caressing his young master, and telling him in his way, how glad he was to see him again. And indeedthe poor dumb animal seemed to express as much affection and delight, asif he had had a tongue to say in words, how much he loved him. "How do you like your present, my boy?" said Mr. Martin. Arthur could hardly speak for emotion, but in a moment he replied, "Verymuch, indeed, sir, and you are very good to get him for me. But may hestay here with me?" "Yes, he is your dog now, Arthur; they have given him to you at home;they seem to set a great deal by him too, there. " Arthur well knew how dearly they all loved Rover, and he felt sure itmust have been hard for them to give him up. His heart was touched bythis generosity and he resolved to become worthy of it, and to strive todo something to make the family happy in return. Rover seemed to impart new life to Arthur. He had now something to love, and something that loved him; and though it was only a poor dumb animal, it filled the vacant place in his heart. Never had Mrs. Martin seen hisdark eyes sparkle so, and his pale cheek look so bright. And did the children at home regret making this sacrifice for theirlittle brother's sake? If any little reader asks this question, we fearthey have never tried the experiment of giving up something they loved, to make another happy. If they had, they would know, what great delightthere was in it; what a warm, delicious feeling it spreads throughoutthe heart. "It _is_ more blessed to give than to receive, " andhappy as Arthur was in receiving this precious present, they were stillhappier in having given it. As Mrs. Hamilton was undressing Emma thatnight, the latter said, "Mother, do you think Arthur has got Rover yet?" "Oh yes, some hours ago, I hope. I dare say he found him there when hegot home from school; and how happy he is to-night! Dear child! I cansee just how bright and happy he looks, as he strokes Rover, and talksto him!" "Oh, I am glad he is gone, mother, for this dear brother was all alone. " "So I glad, " echoed Charlie, who was snugly tucked into the trundle-bed. "Yes, " said their mother, kissing them both, "it always makes us gladwhen we have made another happy; and I am glad you have had anopportunity of learning early how pleasant it is to make sacrifices forothers. " "The darkest lot is not all gloom, " thought she as she sat down by herlittle table and began to sew. "Poverty can teach many sweet lessons, and give us many rich enjoyments. " And her eyes filled with tears; butthey were sweet, refreshing tears. CHAPTER V. BRIGHTER DAYS. Arthur was never lonely now; for Rover was constantly at his side, except in school, and he always went to the school-room door with him inthe morning, and often when Arthur came out of school at night, he wouldfind Rover standing by the door, waiting for him. A happy dog was Rover, in his new home. Mrs. Martin fed him with her own hand, and many a nicedainty did he get, which he was not accustomed to. Arthur was such asweet-tempered, obliging boy, so ready to obey her, and had such gentle, respectful manners, that the good old lady was glad to make Rover happyfor his sake. Obliging little boys almost always find that those theylive with, are obliging too; while quarrelsome boys usually find ittheir fortune to fall among quarrelsome companions; for good temper andbad temper are both contagious and infect all those who come in contactwith them. On bright, cold winter mornings, after eating his nice breakfast, Roverwould scamper off to school with Arthur. He was in too fine spirits towalk by his side, so he would bound off before him, plunging into thesnow drifts up to his neck; then bound back again, with a short quickbark, shaking himself from the feathery snow; and away again for anothermerry race. If he was separated for an hour from Arthur, he would leapup at his return, and almost overwhelm him with his rough embraces. Butthis seldom happened out of school hours, for let Arthur go where hewould, to the barn, the brook, of an errand, or on a visit to his friendTheodore, there Rover was sure to follow. Arthur would sometimes takehim into his room at night and let him lie there, but Mrs. Martin didnot approve of this, but as she was always up by day-light, she wouldopen the door and Rover would go scampering up the stairs ready for agreat frolic on Arthur's bed. As the school continued, Arthur became attached to his teacher and wasquite a favorite with his schoolmates. "_Little_ Arthur Hamilton"he was always called by them, not because there were not many other boyssmaller than he, but from his gentleness and timid softness, he seemedone to be protected by them; and the roughest boy never thought ofpushing and striking _him_. Arthur made a visit of two days at home in the spring vacation. Hismother's heart was cheered by the visible improvement in her boy; andshe told him he had done much to make her happy, by rising above hisweakness and gaining the victory over his besetting sin. "Nothing, " shetold him, "could ever grieve his mother's heart like seeing her childrendo wrong; nothing ever make her so happy as their doing right. " Henry was still at the Academy, hoping to enter College the ensuingCommencement; Lucy with her aunt; and James at Captain L's. Arthur didnot see them, but he had a pleasant visit with the rest. He went to allhis favorite places of resort; the orchard, the "old pasture, " and thelittle brook in the meadow. He led Charlie in one hand, and Emma in theother out on the green grass in the lot, and picked for them the prettywild-flowers which were springing up everywhere among it, while Roverran along by their side, or bounded off in a merry frolic. They were allglad to see Rover once more, and never was a dog so petted and caressed, as he was on this visit to his old friends. When Arthur returned home, he found that the spring had brought avariety of labors with it. Mr. Martin was a farmer, and there were manythings to do, suited to his age and strength. He did all that wasrequired of him with alacrity, but he often found at night that hislimbs were very weary when he lay down in bed. Mr. Martin soon found hecould not endure so much as most boys of his age; but said he to hiswife, "Out-of-door work will do him good, and make him hearty; a woman nevercan bring up a boy properly!" Mrs. Hamilton also hoped that exercise in the open air would give toneand vigor to his somewhat delicate system, and develope his slenderframe into manly strength and symmetry. She wished nothing better forher sons than to become intelligent, industrious, and honest farmers;and such with God's blessing she hoped Arthur would in time be. CHAPTER VI. SAD NEWS. It was a hot Saturday in August, when Henry Hamilton left school to gohome and spend the Sabbath with his mother. This he frequently did, asit was but ten miles distant, and such a walk was only pastime to thevigorous youth, now glowing with health and strength in every vein. Onthis day however, the walk appeared unusually long to him; and he satdown twice by the road-side to rest himself. This was very uncommon;but he said nothing of fatigue when he reached home about sunset. He metthem with his usual cheerful smile, and had a laugh and pleasant wordsfor the children as they crowded round him. Of all Mrs. Hamilton'schildren, Henry was the most sanguine and light-hearted, and when athome, he was always the life of the family circle. He was sincerelydesirous of gaining a thorough education, and of doing credit to hispatrons and friends, and he hoped to be permitted to accomplish muchgood in the world, when he had acquired his profession. There was muchenthusiasm in his character, and much of generous impulse; yet they weremodified by Christian principle. Henry was a sincere Christian. Therewas little of noisy pretension, or loud profession; but in his soul wasa deep and abiding sense of obligation to God; a supreme desire to dohis will, and a fervent love to his fellow-men. To a remarkably fineperson, was added an intellect of uncommon quickness and discrimination, and his teachers spoke in high commendation of his progress. We havesaid he was the favorite son of his mother; and if a thrill of pridepassed through her heart as she gazed on his beaming face, if shegarnered up in her inmost soul many precious dreams of a brilliantfuture, who can wonder? Who shall blame her? It is now many years since "the dust fell on that sunny brow, " but Iwell remember Henry Hamilton--"handsome Henry Hamilton"--and seldomindeed since have I seen a more striking form and face. There was afrank, joyous expression beaming forth from his dark eyes, and his mouthhad always a sweet smile playing about it; there was a high intellectualforehead, indicating thought, though it was half hidden by the sunny, brown curls which clustered about it, and gave a youthful look to eventhis portion of his face. His tall, well-developed figure was theperfection of manly symmetry, and his musical laugh was ever ringing outfreely and unconsciously. His temperament was just the reverse ofArthur's. Bold, courageous, self-relying, he hoped all things, andfeared nothing that man could do; by nature too, he was quick andpassionate, yet full of affection and all generous impulses. Such wasHenry Hamilton, now eighteen years of age--the pride of his family--thefavorite of all who knew him. The night of his return home, he became violently ill, and no remediesappeared to relieve his sufferings. I will not pain my young readerswith a recital of his agonies. They were most intense; and on the thirdday after he was attacked, at six o'clock in the afternoon, he went froman earthly to a heavenly home; from the bosom of his mother, to thebosom of his God! There were few intervals of sufficient ease, to allowof conversation. During these, he expressed entire confidence in theSaviour, and perfect submission to the will of God, though death thenwas most unexpected to him. He also expressed regret that he had doneso little for God, and besought a friend who stood by his bedside, to befaithful to his Christian vows. The last struggle was a fearful one; but his mother supported him in herarms to the last; and to her his last look was given, --a look of sweetaffection, trust, and gratitude. I stood beside his dead body an hour after the spirit had left it. I hadnever before, and have never since, seen one so beautiful in death. Thelast rays of the setting sun streamed softly in at an open window, andone sweet ray fell upon his head. It was a bright halo, --a gloriouscrown, for that sleeping dust to wear. The fair, wide brow, the rich, dark curls, the softly-closed eyelids, the beautiful mouth, had neverbeen so lovely. All was life-like, --radiant. There was an expression ofheavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since. I had not seen him inhis mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have eversuffered. Can this be death, thought I?--Ah, there is a stillness toodeep for life! Those closed lips do not move; those eyes do not open;there is no lingering breath, no beating heart! It is only dust. Thespirit _has_ fled! Beautiful sleeper! There shall be no waking ofthy precious dust till the resurrection morning! Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant tome to be near one I had loved in life. I went into the sitting-room, several neighbors were moving about, but the mother was not there. Ifound her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom thedepths of her anguish? Who but He who formed the soul with all itsmysterious capacities for suffering? The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful intheir summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines;the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, andthe ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorioustwilight. Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest onearth; but though the mother's eye was fixed upon the scene, it wasevident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power. What wonder? Theagony was too recent, --the blighting of all her hopes too sudden forresignation and peace to come into her soul at once. The heavy blow hadfallen, and her heart was crushed! No tear was in her eye, no tremblingin her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive ofutter woe I have seldom seen. What word of consolation could a mortalspeak at such an hour? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness, " and astranger may not inter-meddle with its griefs. Let it be alone with God! James was sent the next morning to bear the heavy tidings to Arthur, andto bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindreddust. Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow. He rode back withJames, scarcely speaking a word. He could not feel that Henry was_dead_; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rousehimself. But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed inspeechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents. Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refusethe healing balm of tears. CHAPTER VII. THE GATHERING. It was thought best to lay Henry's beloved form in the earth on the dayfollowing his death. It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days, August often brings. Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a clouddimmed the sky. One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, withnoiseless step. Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in thehouse of death. Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked withtearful eyes on his peaceful form. The life-like glow had passed awayfrom his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearlyvisible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon, diffused over every feature. Aged men and women who had known him from achild, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched awayfrom life. The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one fromthe adjoining town were there. Both had known Henry, and both had lovedhim. Both spoke with tearful eyes and quivering lip of his worth andloveliness. Holy words of prayer were spoken, --the bereaved mother andweeping children were commended to God, the only refuge in this hour ofdarkness, and fervent intercessions were offered, united with gratefulthanksgivings for all that had been enjoyed in the past, and for all thecheering hopes which brightened the future. The hymn "Why should we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms?" was read and sung. Once more the children were all together under the roof where they hadoften met; all save the son whose home was now in a sunnier clime. Buthow unlike was this to their last joyful gathering! Hours of rejoicing, and hours of mourning, ye are strangely blended in the experience ofhuman hearts. The little village burying-ground was not far distant. A grave wasopened there, for him who but one short week ago was as full of life, ofbounding vigor and of high hopes, as the strongest there. "Oh, had it been but told you then, To mark whose lamp was dim; From out the ranks of these young men Would ye have singled _him_? "Whose was the sinewy arm that flung Defiance to the ring? Whose shout of victory loudest rung? Yet not for glorying. "Whose heart in generous thought and deed, No rivalry could brook? And yet distinction claiming not; There lies he, --go and look! "Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid His dark locks on his brow; Like life, save deeper light and shade, -- We'll not disturb them now!" Of all who stood by that open grave, none wept so passionately as littleArthur. He could not control his emotions, and it was in vain thatfriends tried to soothe him. Poor child! did a sad presentiment ofcoming evil pass over his soul? "Slowly and sadly they laid him down, " and "slowly and sadly" theyreturned home; that home now so vacant, so desolate! There let us leavethem; sorrowing, but "not sorrowing as those without hope. " It is onjust such scenes as these, that the light of Christian Faith shines witha pure and holy radiance, cheering the bereaved heart, and speakingsweet words of reunion, of immortality, of glory "which fadeth notaway. " CHAPTER VIII MORE TRIALS. The next day Arthur returned to Mr. Martin's. His affectionate heart wassaddened, and every pleasure seemed to have lost its charm. But thegriefs of childhood quickly pass away; and Arthur in a few days becamecalm and cheerful. A close observer, however, might have seen a deepershade of thoughtfulness in his eyes, and a softer tone in his alwaysgentle voice. He went to school again, and mingled in his quiet way, with the sports of his companions. Theodore could not be spared fromhome-duties to attend school in the summer months, and Arthur saw muchless of him than formerly. They would meet occasionally after tea, andwith Rover by their side, stroll down by the stream which wound infanciful little curves about the lot; or would play at ball, on thegreen before the house. Arthur seemed less inclined than usual for noisysports, and Theodore sometimes thought he was a sad, stupid playfellow. One evening about five weeks after Henry's funeral, Mrs. Martin said toher husband, -- "It seems to me, Arthur is not well to-day. He has complained a greatdeal of his head, and his face looks flushed and feverish. " "I haven't noticed him to-day, " replied Mr. Martin, "but he certainly isnot a healthy boy, and I am afraid never will be. " The next morning, Arthur refused to eat; and before night a burningfever had evidently seized upon him. A physician was called, who said atonce, -- "He is a very sick child; his head is so hot, I fear a brain fever. Youhad better send for his mother, for mothers I find are generally thebest nurses. He's a fine little fellow, and we must try to save him. " Mr. Martin went himself for Mrs. Hamilton the next morning. It wasindeed heavy tidings that he bore. Was God about to strip her of all sheloved? Her little, tender-hearted Arthur was a precious child, and musthe be taken too? But she quietly prepared to go to him. That wasmanifestly her first duty. There was no time for the indulgence ofgrief, though heavy forebodings weighed upon her heart. When Mrs. Hamilton reached the bedside of her child, she found himdelirious, and was shocked to see he did not know her. He was muchsicker than she expected to find him, and her heart sunk within her. "Is there no hope, Doctor?" she asked, with a quivering lip. "Certainly there is a chance for a boy of his age; but he is a very sickchild, Mrs. Hamilton. Twill be a hard struggle for life, and it isimpossible to tell what will be the result. " Day after, day, night after night, the mother bent over the sick-bed ofher child; her heart sickening with alternations of hope and fear. Sometimes the pulse would lessen, and the medicine seem to affect himfavorably, and she would hope her prayers had been heard, and that lifeand not death was to be his fate; then the fever would rage with renewedviolence, and his little frame would be convulsed with pain. At no timedid he appear to know who was with him, or have the slightest gleam ofconsciousness. He talked but little, and that incoherently; like one in a dream. Thosewere long, sad hours to the anxious mother's heart. "How I lived throughthose days and weeks of anguish, I know not, " she afterwards said, "butstrength was given me according to the day. " And where was Rover, faithful, affectionate Rover, in these mournfuldays? The poor animal moaned and howled perpetually. He would it throughthe whole day and night, upon the stairs leading to Arthur's room, endeavoring to gain admittance, and when driven away, would contrive toreturn to his post, watching with intense eagerness those who entered orleft the room; continually making that dismal moaning which a dog indistress usually does. It was heartrending to hear him. One day, theyallowed him to enter the room, hoping it might quiet him; he jumped uponthe bed instantly, and disturbed the suffering child so much that he wasnever permitted to go in again. Poor Arthur! he no longer had a smile orcaress even for Rover, the companion of his lonely hours, the sharer ofhis exile! He did not even notice him, except by raising his hand tokeep him off. After three weeks of severe suffering, a change came over the belovedchild. The physician thought it barely possible that such a crisis mightterminate favorably, and had prescribed powerful stimulants, but it wassoon evident that he was rapidly sinking in spite of them. He sufferedno longer, but the shadows of the grave were gathering upon his face, and it was not probable he would survive till morning. But Mrs. Hamiltondid not wish any one to sit up by his bedside except herself. "They werewearied, " she said, "by watching; she should not sleep if otherswatched, and if any thing was needed, she would call them. " So shepassed the night alone with her sweet boy. In after years, I have oftenheard her speak of it. It was one of those glorious moonlight Octobernights. The loveliest of landscapes lay before her eye as she stood bythe window, and gazed out upon the scene. Green hills, with intersectingvalleys, forest trees lifting their tops toward the sky, wide-spreadingpasture lands, and, threading its way among them, a littlemountain-stream, bright and pure as innocence itself; all these werevisible, and over all, lay that holy moonlight bathing each object inits spiritual radiance. Who would imagine, to look on the earth on sucha night, that it could be filled with sin and suffering, that thoseglorious skies bent over breaking hearts, and opening graves? The scenewas full of calming influences, and the heart of the mother as shegazed, was soothed and elevated. She felt the presence of God who hadmade the universe; and she knew that while he guided those glorious orbsin their courses, he also felt compassion and love for her poorsuffering heart. _He_ had afflicted her, and He, in his infinitepower and love, knew so much better than she what was best and good, that it was pleasant to commit all her interests into his hands. Her older son, her bright, beloved boy, had gone she believed to minglehis songs in a purer worship than that of earth, and would she call himback from glory? As she lifted her eyes up to the serene heavens, shealmost fancied she heard his voice, saying, "He doeth all things well, do not fear to trust him. " And when she returned to her dying child, itwas with a feeling of sweet confidence. "I will not fear to trust him, even with this darling child. His gentle spirit was not fitted forearthly strifes; now it shall expand in an atmosphere of perfect love. 'The Lord gave him, the Lord taketh him away; blessed be his name. '" The dying boy breathed gently, and looked as if in a sweet sleep, sometimes a smile would play around his mouth, as if he were in apleasant dream. There was no perceptible change till nearly morning, then Mrs. Hamilton called Mr. And Mrs. Martin. They stood in tearfulsilence round his bed, (for they loved Arthur almost as a child), watching his shortened breathing. There was no pain, no sigh, but as themorning light gleamed across the eastern hill, the spirit passed away. CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND GATHERING. Once more the family stood together under the cottage roof; once morethe neighbors and friends one by one, silently passed in; once more acoffin stood upon the table, and aged men and women, and middle-aged andchildren looked into it with weeping eyes; once more stifled sobs wereheard; once more that mother with her children sat in the inner room;but not all; all were not there. The pale weeping boy was no longerclinging to his mother's side. He slept; and tears would never dim hiseyelids more. Sweet, gentle Arthur; _his_ dust was now fair to look upon. He hadnever been a beautiful child, but his face wore a sweet and mildexpression in life, and it was serene and sweet in death. Once more, thevoice of prayer was heard, and the sweet hymn was sung; once more theywalked to the place of graves; and he, who just eight weeks before hadstood weeping there, was now gently laid down to sleep "that sleep, which knows not waking" till "the trump of God shall sound. " "Unvail thy bosom, faithful tomb! Take this new treasure to thy trust; And give these sacred relics room To slumber in the silent dust. " Once more, slowly and sadly, the stricken family went to their home, nowstill more vacant--still more desolate! Once more Christian faith shedits soul-cheering light into the aching heart; once more the sorrowingfound "there was balm in Gilead, and a physician there. " CHAPTER X. ROVER, WHERE IS HE? The day little Arthur was laid in the grave, Rover was seen to stand inMr. Martin's yard, as the body of his young master was carried out; andwhen Mr. And Mrs. Martin returned home and found Rover was not there, they supposed he had gone with the procession, and had remained behindat his old home, and therefore they felt no anxiety about him. At Mrs. Hamilton's when the question was asked, "Where is Rover?" some onereplied, "he staid at Mr. Martin's probably; nothing has been seen ofhim here. " He would now be more fondly cherished than ever by the brothers andsisters of his beloved master; and they resolved to send for him as soonas possible and bring him back. He had been such a fond and faithfulfriend to dear little Arthur, and had contributed so much to hisenjoyment the last year of his life, that henceforth he would beassociated with the image of that dear, dead brother, and would have forthem a tender and mournful interest. When they sent for him, nothingcould be found of the poor creature; no one had seen him, nor did longand protracted search discover any tidings or traces of him. Had hewandered off into the woods on that mournful day, and laid down and diedof grief? Had he been stolen and carried off? Had he been accidentallydestroyed? No one could tell. No one ever knew. But now, after longyears have passed away, with the memory of little Arthur Hamilton isassociated that of the faithful Rover; and an allusion to the dear childso early called away, is sure to bring up the remembrance of Rover, andof his mysterious end. CHAPTER XI. THE TWO GRAVES. It is twenty-two years since Henry and Arthur Hamilton were buried inthat little grave-yard. Last spring, passing by the spot, I got out ofthe carriage and entered the quiet little enclosure. I well rememberedwhere they lay, after this lapse of years, and without difficulty foundthe spot. Two small white stones had been erected, and I sat down on thegrass and spent an half hour in gentle musing, and in half-sad, half-pleasing memories. Once more the manly form and beaming face ofHenry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringinglaugh. I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans forusefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly hehad sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he hadentered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of thesudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires. But were they blighted? Rather, was not all that was good and lovely inhim, still existing and perfecting? Was he not still loving, sympathizing, rejoicing? True, that outward form was now dust beneath myfeet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed awayfrom before our eyes; but the warmly-beating soul with all its noblelongings, and rich aspirations, had not perished with it. When, oh when, shall we learn that we and those we love, are immortal beings? Whenshall we learn that death does not destroy, only remove them and us? The grass had sprung up thick and green over little Arthur's grave, andthe sweet morning sunlight lay quietly upon it. One little blue violethad opened its pretty leaves, and lay there smiling. I was about to pickit, to keep as a little memorial of the spot and the hour, but it seemedso full of life; so fit a companion for the precious dust beneath, Iwould not shorten its existence, but left it to wither there. My tears flowed; for little Arthur was a child I had dearly loved; butyet I knew not why I should mourn his early death. The God who hadwatched over him here, was still watching over him, and we need not fearto trust that loving Friend. Death is not terrible in itself; it is sinthat makes it fearful. If we were pure and holy, we should be happyhere, or in another world, just where God thought best to place us; butwe are sinful, and we need pardon and redemption from sin, before we canlook calmly and fearlessly upon the grave. Jesus Christ has told us howready he is to forgive sin; how much he has suffered that we might beforgiven, and to every human being, even to the youngest who reads thispage, he is saying, "Come unto me ye that are weary and heavy laden andI will give you rest. " THE SOUL'S RETURN. Return, my soul, unto thy rest, From vain pursuits and maddening cares; From lonely woes that wring thy breast, The world's allurements, toils and snares. Return unto thy rest, my soul, From all the wanderings of thy thought; From sickness unto death made whole, Safe through a thousand perils brought. Then to thy rest, my soul, return, From passions every hour at strife; Sin's works, and ways, and wages spurn, Lay hold upon eternal life. God is thy rest;--with heart inclined To keep his word, that word believe; Christ is thy rest;--with lowly mind, His light and easy yoke receive. THE END.