He would now be more fondly cherished than ever by the brothers and sisters of his beloved master; and they resolved to send for him as soon as possible and bring him back.  He had been such a fond and faithful friend to dear little Arthur, and had contributed so much to his enjoyment the last year of his life, that henceforth he would be associated with the image of that dear, dead brother, and would have for them a tender and mournful interest.  When they sent for him, nothing could be found of the poor creature; no one had seen him, nor did long and protracted search discover any tidings or traces of him.  Had he wandered off into the woods on that mournful day, and laid down and died of grief?  Had he been stolen and carried off?  Had he been accidentally destroyed?  No one could tell.  No one ever knew.  But now, after long years have passed away, with the memory of little Arthur Hamilton is associated that of the faithful Rover; and an allusion to the dear child so early called away, is sure to bring up the remembrance of Rover, and of his mysterious end.

CHAPTER XI.

THE TWO GRAVES.

It is twenty-two years since Henry and Arthur Hamilton were buried in that little grave-yard.  Last spring, passing by the spot, I got out of the carriage and entered the quiet little enclosure.  I well remembered where they lay, after this lapse of years, and without difficulty found the spot.  Two small white stones had been erected, and I sat down on the grass and spent an half hour in gentle musing, and in half-sad, half-pleasing memories.  Once more the manly form and beaming face of Henry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringing laugh.  I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans for usefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly he had sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he had entered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of the sudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires.  But were they blighted?  Rather, was not all that was good and lovely in him, still existing and perfecting?  Was he not still loving, sympathizing, rejoicing?  True, that outward form was now dust beneath my feet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed away from before our eyes; but the warmly-beating soul with all its noble longings, and rich aspirations, had not perished with it.  When, oh when, shall we learn that we and those we love, are immortal beings?  When shall 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, and the sweet morning sunlight lay quietly upon it.  One little blue violet had opened its pretty leaves, and lay there smiling.  I was about to pick it, to keep as a little memorial of the spot and the hour, but it seemed so full of life; so fit a companion for the precious dust beneath, I would not shorten its existence, but left it to wither there.