MR. BRANDON IS MADE THE SUBJECT OF AN
HONOURABLE COMPARISON.

John Mortimer, thanks to a strong frame and an excellent constitution, was soon able to rise.  He stood by his little Janie when she was laid in the grave, and felt, when he could think about it, how completely he and his had been spared the natural sorrow they would have suffered by the overshadowing gloom of greater misfortunes.

There was no mother to make lamentation.  It was above all things needful to keep up Johnnie’s spirits, and not discourage him.  He had gone through a harder struggle for his life than his father knew of; but the sight of his pinched features and bright, anxious eyes began only now to produce their natural effect.  John always came into his room with a serene countenance, and if he could not command his voice so as to speak steadily and cheerfully, he sat near him, and was silent.

There was little sign of mourning about the place.  Never did a beautiful little promising life slip away so unobserved.  Anastasia did not even know that her companion was gone.  She was still not out of danger, and she wanted a world of watching and comforting and amusing.

They all wanted that.  John, as he passed from room to room, strangely grateful for the care and kindness that had come into his house almost unbidden, was sometimes relieved himself in listening to the talk that went on.

Only two of his children were quite unhurt; these were Barbara (and she found quite enough occupation in waiting on her twin sister) and little Hugh, who sometimes wandered about after his father almost as disconsolate as himself, and sometimes helped to amuse Bertram, showing him pictures, while Miss Christie told him tales.  Master Bertram Mortimer, having reached the ripe age of nine years, had come to the conclusion that it was muffish—­like a cad, like a girl—­to cry.  So when his broken arm and other grievances got beyond his power of endurance, he used to call out instead, while his tender-hearted little brother did the crying for him, stuffing his bright head into the pillows and sobbing as if his heart would break.

On one of these occasions John drew the child away and took him downstairs.  “I’m crying about Janie too,” he said, creeping into his father’s arms to be consoled, and not knowing the comfort this touch of natural sorrow had imparted to an over-strained heart.

The weather was unusually hot for the time of year, the doors and windows stood open, so that John could pass about as he pleased; he judged by the tone of voice in which each one spoke whether things were going well or not.  After he had sent little Hugh to bed that evening he went upstairs and sat in a staircase window, in full view of Johnnie’s room.  Swan was talking by the boy’s bedside, while Johnnie seemed well content to listen.  Little notice was taken when he appeared, and the discourse went on with quiet gravity, and that air of conviction which Swan always imparted to his words.