love to his fellow-men.  To a remarkably fine person, was added an intellect of uncommon quickness and discrimination, and his teachers spoke in high commendation of his progress.  We have said he was the favorite son of his mother; and if a thrill of pride passed through her heart as she gazed on his beaming face, if she garnered up in her inmost soul many precious dreams of a brilliant future, who can wonder?  Who shall blame her?

It is now many years since “the dust fell on that sunny brow,” but I well remember Henry Hamilton—­“handsome Henry Hamilton”—­and seldom indeed since have I seen a more striking form and face.  There was a frank, joyous expression beaming forth from his dark eyes, and his mouth had always a sweet smile playing about it; there was a high intellectual forehead, indicating thought, though it was half hidden by the sunny, brown curls which clustered about it, and gave a youthful look to even this portion of his face.  His tall, well-developed figure was the perfection of manly symmetry, and his musical laugh was ever ringing out freely and unconsciously.  His temperament was just the reverse of Arthur’s.  Bold, courageous, self-relying, he hoped all things, and feared nothing that man could do; by nature too, he was quick and passionate, yet full of affection and all generous impulses.  Such was Henry Hamilton, now eighteen years of age—­the pride of his family—­the favorite of all who knew him.

The night of his return home, he became violently ill, and no remedies appeared to relieve his sufferings.  I will not pain my young readers with a recital of his agonies.  They were most intense; and on the third day after he was attacked, at six o’clock in the afternoon, he went from an earthly to a heavenly home; from the bosom of his mother, to the bosom of his God!  There were few intervals of sufficient ease, to allow of conversation.  During these, he expressed entire confidence in the Saviour, and perfect submission to the will of God, though death then was most unexpected to him.  He also expressed regret that he had done so little for God, and besought a friend who stood by his bedside, to be faithful to his Christian vows.

The last struggle was a fearful one; but his mother supported him in her arms to the last; and to her his last look was given,—­a look of sweet affection, trust, and gratitude.

I stood beside his dead body an hour after the spirit had left it.  I had never before, and have never since, seen one so beautiful in death.  The last rays of the setting sun streamed softly in at an open window, and one sweet ray fell upon his head.  It was a bright halo,—­a glorious crown, for that sleeping dust to wear.  The fair, wide brow, the rich, dark curls, the softly-closed eyelids, the beautiful mouth, had never been so lovely.  All was life-like,—­radiant.  There was an expression of heavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since.  I had not seen him in his mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have ever suffered.  Can this be death, thought I?—­Ah, there is a stillness too deep 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.  The spirit has fled!  Beautiful sleeper!  There shall be no waking of thy precious dust till the resurrection morning!