lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to Heaven.”  I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said it did not make him low spirited.  Emilie and he talked of it often.  Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven than any of us who a year or two ago thought him scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he sends to become his choicest mercies.  So it has been with poor White, I am sure.  I find I have nearly filled my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him.  Don’t you remember Emilie’s saying, “I would try to make him lovable.”  He is lovable now, I assure you.

I am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of yours.  We have only two school-fellows at present, but Herr Franks does not wish for a large school; he says he likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which if there were more of us he could not so well manage.  We have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly arrived German boy, but we are going to try and make him lovable.  He is a good way off it yet.

I must leave John to tell you about the many things I have forgotten, and I will write soon.  We have a cat here whom we call Muff, after your old pet.  Her name often reminds me of your sacrifice for me.  Ah! my dear little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day.  Truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil with good.  Dear love to all at home.  Your ever affectionate brother,

  FRED PARKER.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

THE LAST.

“Hush, dears! hush!” said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window.  “He is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry evening.  I would not rake that bed to-night, John, I think.”

“It is his garden, Emilie.”

“Yes, I know”—­and she sighed.—­

“It is his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the least untidiness.  He will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out to-morrow.”

“John there may be no to-morrow for Joe, he is altered very much to-day, and it is evident to me he is sinking fast.  He won’t come down again, I think.”

“May I go and sit by him, Emilie?” said the boy, quietly gathering up his tools and preparing to leave his employment.

“Yes, but be very still.”

It was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary sleeper.  So Emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and watched them both.  The roses and the carnations that John had brought to his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse of the dying boy.  There was