“No one could have been better than you, Jim,” said the elder, feeling more calmness than he had yet shown.  He realized he was bending in the awful shadow of death, and that but a few more words could pass between him find the one he loved so well.

“I haven’t been half as good as I ought to—­not half as good as you, Tom.”

“O Jim! you should not say that.”

“He is right,” whispered Mrs. Pitcairn, standing at the foot of the bed, beside her husband; “he will be with us but a few minutes longer.  How do you feel,” she asked gently, “now that you must soon go, Jim?”

“I am sorry to leave you and Tom, but it’s all right.  I see mother and Maggie and father,” he replied, looking toward the ceiling; “they are bending over me, they are waiting to take my hand; I am glad to be with them—­Tom, kiss me good-by.”

With the tears blinding his eyes, and holding the hot hand within his own warm pressure, Tom Gordon pressed his lips on those of Jim Travers, and, as he held them there, the spirit of the poor orphan wanderer took its flight.

The door gently opened a minute later and the physician stepped inside.  One glance told him the truth.

“I knew it was coming when I looked at him this morning,” he remarked, in a soft, sympathetic voice.  “Nothing could save him.  How do you all feel?”

It seemed cruel to ask the question of the three all standing in the presence of death; but it was professional and it was wise, for, by pressing it, he withdrew their thoughts from the overwhelming sorrow that was crushing them.

Tom Gordon had flung himself on the bed with uncontrollable sorrow.  One arm lay over the breast and partly round the neck of the body, which breathed no longer, and whose face was lit up by a beatific smile; for Jim Travers was with mother and Maggie and father, and they should go out no more forever.

Chapter XIX.

It is not well to dwell upon the second great affliction of Tom Gordon.  He was older now than when his mother died, and though bowed to the earth by the loss of his cherished playmate, he was too sensible to brood over his grief.  Short as had been his stay at the home of Farmer Pitcairn, he had made friends, and they were abundant with the best of counsel.

There is no remedy for mental trouble like hard work.  There’s nothing the equal of it.  When the dark shadow comes, apply yourself with might and main to some duty.  Do your utmost to concentrate your thoughts, energies, and whole being upon it.  Avoid sitting down in the gloom and bemoaning your affliction.  By and by it will soften; and, relying upon the goodness of Him who doeth all things well, you will see the kindly providence which overrules all the affairs of this life.  With the gentle poet you will be able to murmur:—­

P
    “Sweet the hour of tribulation,
      When the heart can freely sigh,
    And the tear of resignation
      Twinkles in the mournful eye.” 
P