JOHN went to his child's funeral; but he was very quiet and many who had seen the devotion with which he had watched him while alive, wondered at his calmness. They had expected a heavy out-break of grief; but there was none. He lingered at the grave until the last sod was laid upon it; and then he went away very quietly, though some said he tottered for a moment as he turned to go.

Harry Lindsey joined him as he went home, and quietly slid his hand in his. John started, and turned suddenly, as if he expected to find some one else at his side; but he said nothing: and the boy, too, walked with him in silence. They did not part at the door, but went in together, and sat down by the fire. The room was very still; the little hat and coat still hung on the peg against the wall, and all the marks of the former presence of the child were still there. John looked around wistfully, and then turned to the boy :

'You'll miss little Tom, won't you?' asked he, in a tremulous tone. 'He was very fond of you.'

Harry Lindsey sprang up, and, flinging himself in front of the blacksmith, leaned his head against his knee, and sobbed as if his heart would break. John's own heart was full; and oh! how grateful to him was the love which this child was showing to his own lost boy! He could not speak; but he raised him in his arms and pressed him to his heart ; and as the tears, which he vainly tried to keep back, filled his eyes, with his head bowed over him, he swore by the love which he had borne to his own child, to keep the promise he had made to Harry's father, at all hazard and at all cost.

They sat and talked of little Tom, of his ways, and of what he had said and done, and of how gay and patient he was in spite of all his pain, until they both grew quite cheerful and now and then a smile

lighted up the face of John, as in dwelling on the past he forgot the present. As they talked, the sun went down, and night came on. Then the black-smith took Harry by the hand and accompanied him home. As he was parting with him, he said:

'You'll come and see me sometimes, Master Harry, won't you?' The boy sprang up and flung his arms about his neck:

'I will, John, I will.'

The door closed on him, and John set out for home.

A week had passed, and John went to his work as usual; but there was a stern gravity about him, as if he had encased his warmer feelings in iron, resolved to keep them down, although he had at times a weary, care-worn look. Morning, noon, and night, the clink of his hammer was heard. He never broke off from his work as heretofore. His neighbors, who usually assembled about the smithy, kept away, for they felt that beneath his grave exterior there was a great weight of mental sorrow; and so he labored on by himself.

It was a quiet, golden day; not a breath of wind rippled the water of the lake; not a leaf rustled. The smoke of the forge ascended straight upward like a column of dark gray marble, until, high up in the sky, above the smithy, it spread out into a sombre canopy; and there it hung. There was a glistening rime upon the leaves and branches of the trees which spoke of coming winter; but the birds still twittered gaily, for their ice-clad enemy was not upon them yet.

John was busy at his work, too sad at heart to think of the brightness about him, but stern and resolved to bear his trouble with a manly spirit, and to fight the battle of life bravely. He was so intent upon his work that he did not observe a shadow as it darkened his door; nor did he observe the owner of the shadow, who, after standing for a moment watching him, came in and stood within a few feet of him.

He was short and square-built, with light hair, and a bright, open, blue eye, which met your glance freely, fully, and frankly, and had withal such an honest expression that you might have sworn to his sincerity at once from his look alone. Although much younger than John, he was by no means young. He was roughly dressed in stout, strong apparel, and wore a felt hat, carelessly slouched over his face.

He stood some moments watching the smith, as if in doubt how to address him, and perhaps in the hope that John would observe him. But if such were the case he was disappointed, for the black-smith went on with his work, utterly unobservant of his presence.

At last he went up to him and took him by the hand. John started and looked up.

'Dick Bolles! you here? I'm glad to see you, Dick; indeed I am,' exclaimed he, laying down a heavy hammer which he held, and grasping the hand of the other in both of his own. 'It's kind of you, Dick.' The stranger shook his hands cordially.

'The world's gone hard with you, John,' said he, still holding his hand and looking earnestly in his face. I heard of it only yesterday.' 'Yes, Dick, it has.'

'And little Tom?

inquired the other.

He did not finish the sentence, but stood looking John full in the face.

John pointed to the place beneath the willows, where the child had used to lie.

'He's gone.'

Dick still held his hand, and looked inquiringly in his face; and John, rightly interpreting the look, went on, speaking in a low, tremulous tone, and twisting a piece of iron in his hand as he spoke :

'I knew that he must die; I felt that it must be so; that it could never have been intended that a little decrepit boy like he should grow to be a man; he could n't. But I always thought the time a great way off; a very great way off.

He paused and drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and twisted the piece of iron backward and forward with great rapidity, and then went on as before:

'I did n't wish to die and leave him here alone with no one to care for him. I didn't wish that, but I hoped that somehow we might go together, and that I could have his little hand in mine even in the grave. It was foolish

John struggled with himself for a moment, then flung the iron on the floor, and, going to the forge, turned his back upon his friend and busied himself in raking up the fire. At last, turning to Bolles, and straightening himself up, he said:

'It's all right, Dick; it's but the course of nature. Children have died, and parents have sorrowed over them before this; and time has fled, until they rested side by side; and then they met again. It has been so before; it is so now; it will be so again as long as earth is earth and man is mortal. Grief is idle I'm but fulfilling the great law.'

John spoke bravely. He held himself up erect, and looked his friend full in the face, as if to gain his approbation of the victory which cold reason was gaining over his heart; but his words wanted the ring of the true metal.

Dick was a plain, uneducated man, with keen perceptions of right and wrong, and a blunt and open honesty of purpose which went straight to its object; withal a kind and open heart, and had always looked up to the smith with respect and affection.

He saw the struggle of John to reason down the yearnings of nature, but he had no sympathy with such cold philosophy.

6

John,' said he, though you 're a black-smith you are a l'arned man, and I am not you have been abroad and seen the world and the sights that are in it, and I have not; while you were getting wise, I was getting rusty, and perhaps behind the world; I don't say that I was n't; but this I do say, and this I 'll insist on, too,' said he, placing his finger on the palm of his hand; if GOD gives us children, and gives us hearts to love them with, HE intends us to love them. If He takes them away, and gives us hearts to grieve for them, HE intends us to grieve for them. You might as well say when a man's pleased he's not to laugh, and when he's hurt he's not to holler. I believe in them all; each in his proper place.'

Dick struck one hand against the open palm of the other, to drive his argument home and clinch it.