Then Jock saw for one moment Armine’s face perfectly writhen with suppressed grief; but the boy gave no time for a word, hurrying up the stairs as rapidly as possible to his own room.

“Will not you go to bed?  Mother will come to you there,” said Jock to his sister, who was still quite white and tearless.

“Please not,” was her entreaty.  “Suppose they sent for me!”

He did not think they would, but he let her sit in the dark by the open window, listening; and he put his arm round her, and said, gently—-

“You are much honoured, Babie.  It is a great thing to have held so pure and true a heart, not for time, but eternity.”

“Don’t, Jock.  Not yet!  I can’t bear it,” she moaned; but she laid her head on his shoulder, and so rested till he said—-

“If you can spare me, Babie, I think I must see to Armie.  He seemed to me terribly overcome.”

“Armine has lost his very best and dearest friend,” she said, pressing her hands together.  “Oh yes, go to him!  Armie can feel, and I can’t!  I can only choke!”

Jock apprehended a hysterical struggle, but there only came one long sob like strangulation, and he thought the pent up feeling might better find its course if she were left alone, and he was really anxious about Armine, remembering what the loss was to him, that it was his first real grief, and that he had had a considerable share of the first shock of the alarm.

His soft knock was unheard, and as he gently pushed open the door, he saw Armine kneeling in the dark with his head bowed over his prayer-desk, and would have retreated, but he had been heard, and Armine rose and came forward.

The light on the stairs showed a pale, tear-stained face, but calm and composed; and it was in a steady, though hushed, voice that he said—-

“Can I be of any use?”

“I am sorry to have disturbed you.  I only came to see after you.  This is a sore stroke on you, Armie.”

“I can stand it better, now.  I have given him up to God as he bade me,” said Armine.  “It had been a weary, disappointed, struggling life, and he never wished it to last.”  The tears were choking him, but they were gentle ones.  “He thought it might be like this-—and soon-—only he hoped to get home first.  And I can give thanks for him, what he has been to me, and what he will be to me all my life.”

“That is right, Armie.  John did great things for us all when he caught the carriage.”

“And how is Babie?”

“Poor child, she seems as if she could neither speak nor cry.  It is half hysterical, and I was going to get something for her to take.  Perhaps seeing you may be good for her.”

“Poor little thing, she is almost his widow, though she scarcely knows it,” said Armine, coming down with his brother.