Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant to me 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.  I found her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom the depths of her anguish?  Who but He who formed the soul with all its mysterious capacities for suffering?

The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful in their summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines; the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, and the ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorious twilight.  Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest on earth; but though the mother’s eye was fixed upon the scene, it was evident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power.  What wonder?  The agony was too recent,—­the blighting of all her hopes too sudden for resignation and peace to come into her soul at once.  The heavy blow had fallen, and her heart was crushed!  No tear was in her eye, no trembling in her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive of utter woe I have seldom seen.  What word of consolation could a mortal speak at such an hour?  “The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” and a stranger 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, and to bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindred dust.

Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow.  He rode back with James, scarcely speaking a word.  He could not feel that Henry was dead; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rouse himself.  But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed in speechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents.  Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refuse the healing balm of tears.

CHAPTER VII.

THE GATHERING.

It was thought best to lay Henry’s beloved form in the earth on the day following his death.  It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days, August often brings.  Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a cloud dimmed the sky.  One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, with noiseless step.  Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in the house of death.  Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked with tearful eyes on his peaceful form.  The life-like glow had passed away from his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearly visible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon, diffused over every feature.  Aged men and women who had known him from a child, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched away from life.  The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one from the adjoining town were there.  Both had known