Now the lovely June days had come, everything began to lookreally summer-like; school would soon be over, and the youngpeople were joyfully preparing for the long vacation.

"We are all going up to Bethlehem. We take the seashore one yearand the mountains the next. Better come along," said Gus, as theboys lay on the grass after beating the Lincolns at one of the firstmatches of the season.

"Can't; we are off to Pebbly Beach the second week in July. Ourinvalids need sea air. That one looks delicate, doesn't he?" askedFrank, giving Jack a slight rap with his bat as that younggentleman lay in his usual attitude admiring the blue hose andrusset shoes which adorned his sturdy limbs.

"Stop that, Captain! You needn't talk about invalids, when youknow mother says you are not to look at a book for a monthbecause you have studied yourself thin and headachy. I'm allright;" and Jack gave himself a sounding slap on the chest, whereshone the white star of the H.B.B.C.

"Hear the little cockerel crow! you just wait till you get into thecollege class, and see if you don't have to study like fun," said Gus,with unruffled composure, for he was going to Harvard next year,and felt himself already a Senior.

"Never shall; I don't want any of your old colleges. I'm going intobusiness as soon as I can. Ed says I may be his book-keeper, if Iam ready when he starts for himself. That is much jollier thangrinding away for four years, and then having to grind ever somany more at a profession," said Jack, examining with interest thevarious knocks and bruises with which much ball-playing hadadorned his hands.

"Much you know about it. Just as well you don't mean to try, for itwould take a mighty long pull and strong pull to get you in.Business would suit you better, and you and Ed would make acapital partnership. Devlin, Minot, & Co. sounds well, hey, Gus?"

"Very, but they are such good-natured chaps, they'd never get rich.By the way, Ed came home at noon to-day sick. I met him, and helooked regularly knocked up," answered Gus, in a sober tone.

"I told him he'd better not go down Monday, for he wasn't wellSaturday, and couldn't come to sing Sunday evening, youremember. I must go right round and see what the matter is;" andJack jumped up, with an anxious face.

"Let him alone till to-morrow. He won't want any one fussing overhim now. We are going for a pull; come along and steer," saidFrank, for the sunset promised to be fine, and the boys liked abrisk row in their newly painted boat, the "Rhodora."

"Go ahead and get ready, I'll just cut round and ask at the door. Itwill seem kind, and I must know how Ed is. Won't be long;" andJack was off at his best pace.

The others were waiting impatiently when he came back withslower steps and a more anxious face.

"How is the old fellow?" called Frank from the boat, while Gusstood leaning on an oar in a nautical attitude.

"Pretty sick. Had the doctor. May have a fever. I didn't go in, butEd sent his love, and wanted to know who beat," answered Jack,stepping to his place, glad to rest and cool himself.

"Guess he'll be all right in a day or two;" and Gus pushed off,leaving all care behind.

"Hope he won't have typhoid - that's no joke, I tell you," said Frank,who knew all about it, and did not care to repeat the experience.

"He's worked too hard. He's so faithful he does more than hisshare, and gets tired out. Mother asked him to come down and seeus when he has his vacation; we are going to have high old timesfishing and boating. Up or down?" asked Jack, as they glided outinto the river.

Gus looked both ways, and seeing another boat with a glimpse ofred in it just going round the bend, answered, with decision, "Up,of course. Don't we always pull to the bridge?"

"Not when the girls are going down," laughed Jack, who hadrecognized Juliet's scarlet boating-suit as he glanced over hisshoulder.

"Mind what you are about, and don't gabble," commanded CaptainFrank, as the crew bent to their oars and the slender boat cutthrough the water leaving a long furrow trembling behind.

"Oh, ah! I see! There is a blue jacket as well as a red one, so it's allright.

sung Jack, recovering his spirits, and wishing Jill was there too.

"Do you want a ducking?" sternly demanded Gus, anxious topreserve discipline.

"Shouldn't mind, its so warm."

But Jack said no more, and soon the "Rhodora" was alongside the"Water Witch," exchanging greetings in the most amiable manner.

"Pity this boat won't hold four. We'd put Jack in yours, and takeyou girls a nice spin up to the Hemlocks," said Frank, whose ideaof bliss was floating down the river with Annette as coxswain.

"You'd better come in here, this will hold four, and we are tired ofrowing," returned the "Water Witch," so invitingly that Gus couldnot resist.

"I don't think it is safe to put four in there. You'd better changeplaces with Annette, Gus, and then we shall be ship-shape," saidFrank, answering a telegram from the eyes that matched the bluejacket.

The good-natured offer being accepted with thanks, the changeswere made, and, leaving him behind, the two boats went gayly upthe river. He really did not care what he did, so sat in Grif's boatawhile watching the red sky, the shining stream, and the low greenmeadows, where the blackbirds were singing as if they too had mettheir little sweethearts and were happy.

Jack remembered that quiet half-hour long afterward, becausewhat followed seemed to impress it on his memory. As he satenjoying the scene, he very naturally thought about Ed; for the faceof the sister whom he saw was very anxious, and the word "fever"recalled the hard times when Frank was ill, particularly the night itwas thought the boy would not live till dawn, and Jack criedhimself to sleep, wondering how he ever could get on without hisbrother. Ed was almost as dear to him, and the thought that he wassuffering destroyed Jack's pleasure for a little while. But,fortunately, young people do not know how to be anxious verylong, so our boy soon cheered up, thinking about the late matchbetween the Stars and the Lincolns, and after a good rest wentwhistling home, with a handful of mint for Mrs. Pecq, and playedgames with Jill as merrily as if there was no such thing as care inthe world.

Next day Ed was worse, and for a week the answer was the same,when Jack crept to the back door with his eager question.

Others came also, for the dear boy lying upstairs had friendseverywhere, and older neighbors thought of him even moreanxiously and tenderly than his mates. It was not fever, but someswifter trouble, for when Saturday night came, Ed had gone hometo a longer and more peaceful Sabbath than any he had ever knownin this world.

Jack had been there in the afternoon, and a kind message hadcome down to him that his friend was not suffering so much, andhe had gone away, hoping, in his boyish ignorance, that all dangerwas over. An hour later he was reading in the parlor, having noheart for play, when Frank came in with a look upon his facewhich would have prepared Jack for the news if he had seen it. Buthe did not look up, and Frank found it so hard to speak, that helingered a moment at the piano, as he often did when he camehome. It stood open, and on the rack was the "Jolly Brothers'Galop," which he had been learning to play with Ed. Big boy as hewas, the sudden thought that never again would they sit shoulder toshoulder, thundering the marches or singing the songs both likedso well, made his eyes fill as he laid away the music, and shut theinstrument, feeling as if he never wanted to touch it again. Then hewent and sat down beside Jack with an arm round his neck, tryingto steady his voice by a natural question before he told the heavynews.

"What are you reading, Jacky?"

The unusual caress, the very gentle tone, made Jack look up, andthe minute he saw Frank's face he knew the truth.

"Is Ed - - ?" he could not say the hard word, and Frank could onlyanswer by a nod as he winked fast, for the tears would come. Jacksaid no more, but as the book dropped from his knee he hid hisface in the sofa-pillow and lay quite still, not crying, but trying tomake it seem true that his dear Ed had gone away for ever. Hecould not do it, and presently turned his head a little to say, in adespairing tone, -

"I know it's hard for you. It is for all of us."

"You've got Gus, but now I haven't anybody. Ed was always sogood to me!" and with the name so many tender recollectionscame, that poor Jack broke down in spite of his manful attempts tosmother the sobs in the red pillow.

There was an unconscious reproach in the words, Frank thought;for he was not as gentle as Ed, and he did not wonder that Jackloved and mourned for the lost friend like a brother.

"You've got me. I'll be good to you; cry if you want to, I don'tmind."

There was such a sympathetic choke in Frank's voice that Jack feltcomforted at once, and when he had had his cry out, which wasvery soon, he let Frank pull him up with a bear-like butaffectionate hug, and sat leaning on him as they talked about theirloss, both feeling that there might have been a greater one, andresolving to love one another very much hereafter.

Mrs. Minot often called Frank the "father-boy," because he wasnow the head of the house, and a sober, reliable fellow for hisyears. Usually he did not show much affection except to her, for,as he once said, "I shall never be too old to kiss my mother," andshe often wished that he had a little sister, to bring out the softerside of his character. He domineered over Jack and laughed at hisaffectionate little ways, but now when trouble came, he was askind and patient as a girl; and when Mamma came in, havingheard the news, she found her "father-boy" comforting his brotherso well that she slipped away without a word, leaving them tolearn one of the sweet lessons sorrow teaches - to lean on oneanother, and let each trial bring them closer together.

It is often said that there should be no death or grief in children'sstories. It is not wise to dwell on the dark and sad side of thesethings; but they have also a bright and lovely side, and since eventhe youngest, dearest, and most guarded child cannot escape someknowledge of the great mystery, is it not well to teach them insimple, cheerful ways that affection sweetens sorrow, and a lovelylife can make death beautiful? I think so, therefore try to tell thelast scene in the history of a boy who really lived and really leftbehind him a memory so precious that it will not be soon forgottenby those who knew and loved him. For the influence of this shortlife was felt by many, and even this brief record of it may do forother children what the reality did for those who still lay flowerson his grave, and try to be "as good as Eddy."

Few would have thought that the death of a quiet lad of seventeenwould have been so widely felt, so sincerely mourned; but virtue,like sunshine, works its own sweet miracles, and when it wasknown that never again would the bright face be seen in the villagestreets, the cheery voice heard, the loving heart felt in any of thelittle acts which so endeared Ed Devlin to those about him, itseemed as if young and old grieved alike for so much promise cutoff in its spring-time. This was proved at the funeral, for, though ittook place at the busy hour of a busy day, men left their affairs,women their households, young people their studies and their play,and gave an hour to show their affection, respect, and sympathy forthose who had lost so much.

The girls had trimmed the church with all the sweetest flowersthey could find, and garlands of lilies of the valley robbed thecasket of its mournful look. The boys had brought fresh boughs tomake the grave a green bed for their comrade's last sleep. Nowthey were all gathered together, and it was a touching sight to seethe rows of young faces sobered and saddened by their first look atsorrow. The girls sobbed, and the boys set their lips tightly as theirglances fell upon the lilies under which the familiar face lay full ofsolemn peace. Tears dimmed older eyes when the hymn the deadboy loved was sung, and the pastor told with how much pride andpleasure he had watched the gracious growth of this youngparishioner since he first met the lad of twelve and was attractedby the shining face, the pleasant manners. Dutiful and loving;ready to help; patient to bear and forbear; eager to excel; faithfulto the smallest task, yet full of high ambitions; and, better still,possessing the childlike piety that can trust and believe, wait andhope. Good and happy - the two things we all long for and so fewof us truly are. This he was, and this single fact was the besteulogy his pastor could pronounce over the beloved youth gone toa nobler manhood whose promise left so sweet a memory behind.

As the young people looked, listened, and took in the scene, theyfelt as if some mysterious power had changed their playmate froma creature like themselves into a sort of saint or hero for them tolook up to, and imitate if they could. "What has he done, to be soloved, praised, and mourned?" they thought, with a tender sort ofwonder; and the answer seemed to come to them as never before,for never had they been brought so near the solemn truth of lifeand death. "It was not what he did but what he was that made himso beloved. All that was sweet and noble in him still lives; forgoodness is the only thing we can take with us when we die, theonly thing that can comfort those we leave behind, and help us tomeet again hereafter."

This feeling was in many hearts when they went away to lay him,with prayer and music, under the budding oak that leaned over hisgrave, a fit emblem of the young life just beginning its new spring.As the children did their part, the beauty of the summer daysoothed their sorrow, and something of the soft brightness of theJune sunshine seemed to gild their thoughts, as it gilded theflower-strewn mound they left behind. The true and touchingwords spoken cheered as well as impressed them, and made themfeel that their friend was not lost but gone on into a higher class ofthe great school whose Master is eternal love and wisdom. So thetears soon dried, and the young faces looked up like flowers afterrain. But the heaven-sent shower sank into the earth, and they werethe stronger, sweeter for it, more eager to make life brave andbeautiful, because death had gently shown them what it should be.

When the boys came home they found their mother alreadyreturned, and Jill upon the parlor sofa listening to her account ofthe funeral with the same quiet, hopeful look which their ownfaces wore; for somehow the sadness seemed to have gone, and asort of Sunday peace remained.

"I'm glad it was all so sweet and pleasant. Come and rest, you lookso tired;" and Jill held out her hands to greet them - a crumpledhandkerchief in one and a little bunch of fading lilies in the other.

Jack sat down in the low chair beside her and leaned his headagainst the arm of the sofa, for he was tired. But Frank walkedslowly up and down the long rooms with a serious yet serene lookon his face, for he felt as if he had learned something that day, andwould always be the better for it. Presently he said, stoppingbefore his mother, who leaned in the easy-chair looking up at thepicture of her boys' father, -

"I should like to have just such things said about me whenI die."

"So should I, if I deserved them as Ed did!" cried Jack, earnestly.

"You may if you try. I should be proud to hear them, and if theywere true, they would comfort me more than anything else. I amglad you see the lovely side of sorrow, and are learning the lessonsuch losses teach us," answered their mother, who believed inteaching young people to face trouble bravely, and find the silverlining in the clouds that come to all of us.

"I never thought much about it before, but now dying doesn't seemdreadful at all - only solemn and beautiful. Somehow everybodyseems to love everybody else more for it, and try to be kind andgood and pious. I can't say what I mean, but you know, mother;"and Frank went pacing on again with the bright look his eyesalways wore when he listened to music or read of some nobleaction.

"That's what Merry said when she and Molly came in on their wayhome. But Molly felt dreadfully, and so did Mabel. She broughtme these flowers to press, for we are all going to keep some toremember dear Ed by," said Jill, carefully smoothing out the littlebells as she laid the lilies in her hymn-book, for she too had had athoughtful hour while she lay alone, imagining all that went on inthe church, and shedding a few tender tears over the friend whowas always so kind to her.

"As you do," said Jack, going to sit on the arm of Mamma's chair,with his cheek to hers, willing to trust as she bade him, but glad tohold fast the living hand that had led and comforted him all hislife.

"Ed used to say to me when I fretted about getting well, andthought nobody cared for me, which was very naughty, 'Don't betroubled, God won't forget you; and if you must be lame, He willmake you able to bear it,'" said Jill, softly, her quick little mind allalive with new thoughts and feelings.

"He believed it, and that's why he liked that hymn so much. I'mglad they sung it to-day," said Frank, bringing his heavy dictionaryto lay on the book where the flowers were pressing.

"Oh, thank you! Could you play that tune for me? I didn't hear it,and I'd love to, if you are willing," asked Jill.

"I didn't think I ever should want to play again, but I do. Will yousing it for her, mother? I'm afraid I shall break down if I try alone."

"We will all sing, music is good for us now," said Mamma; and inrather broken voices they did sing Ed's favorite words: -