In your silent chamber, after the storm of sobs has wearied you, the boy-dreams are strange and earnest.  They take hold on that awful Visitant,—­that strange slipping away from life, of which we know so little, and yet know, alas, so much!  Charlie that was your brother, is now only a name:  perhaps he is an angel; perhaps (for the old nurse has said it when he was ugly—­and now you hate her for it) he is with Satan!

But you are sure this cannot be:  you are sure that God, who made him suffer, would not now quicken and multiply his suffering.  It agrees with your religion to think so; and just now you want your religion to help you all it can.

You toss in your bed, thinking over and over of that strange thing—­Death; and that perhaps it may overtake you before you are a man; and you sob out those prayers (you scarce know why) which ask God to keep life in you.  You think the involuntary fear, that makes your little prayer full of sobs, is a holy feeling;—­and so it is a holy feeling,—­the same feeling which makes a stricken child yearn for the embrace and the protection of a Parent.  But you will find there are those canting ones trying to persuade you, at a later day, that it is a mere animal fear, and not to be cherished.

You feel an access of goodness growing out of your boyish grief; you feel right-minded; it seems as if your little brother in going to Heaven had opened a path-way thither, down which goodness comes streaming over your soul.

You think how good a life you will lead; and you map out great purposes, spreading themselves over the school-weeks of your remaining boyhood; and you love your friends, or seem to, far more dearly than you ever loved them before; and you forgive the boy who provoked you to that sad fall from the oak, and you forgive him all his wearisome teasings.  But you cannot forgive yourself for some harsh words that you have once spoken to Charlie; still less can you forgive yourself for having once struck him in passion with your fist.  You cannot forget his sobs then;—­if he were only alive one little instant to let you say,—­“Charlie, will you forgive me?”

Yourself you cannot forgive; and sobbing over it, and murmuring “Dear, dear Charlie!” you drop into a troubled sleep.

V.

Boy Religion.

Is any weak soul frightened, that I should write of the Religion of the boy?  How indeed could I cover the field of his moral or intellectual growth, if I left unnoticed those dreams of futurity and of goodness, which come sometimes to his quieter moments, and oftener to his hours of vexation and trouble?  It would be as wise to describe the season of Spring with no note of the silent influences of that burning Day-god which is melting day by day the shattered ice-drifts of Winter,—­which is filling every bud with succulence, and painting one flower with crimson, and another with white.