Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 24

The little village burying-ground was not far distant. A grave was
opened there, for him who but one short week ago was as full of life, of
bounding vigor and of high hopes, as the strongest there.

   "Oh, had it been but told you then,
     To mark whose lamp was dim;
   From out the ranks of these young men
     Would ye have singled _him_?

   "Whose was the sinewy arm that flung
     Defiance to the ring?
   Whose shout of victory loudest rung?
     Yet not for glorying.

   "Whose heart in generous thought and deed,
     No rivalry could brook?
   And yet distinction claiming not;
     There lies he,--go and look!

   "Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid
     His dark locks on his brow;
   Like life, save deeper light and shade,--
     We'll not disturb them now!"

Of all who stood by that open grave, none wept so passionately as little
Arthur. He could not control his emotions, and it was in vain that
friends tried to soothe him. Poor child! did a sad presentiment of
coming evil pass over his soul?

"Slowly and sadly they laid him down," and "slowly and sadly" they
returned home; that home now so vacant, so desolate! There let us leave
them; sorrowing, but "not sorrowing as those without hope." It is on
just such scenes as these, that the light of Christian Faith shines with
a pure and holy radiance, cheering the bereaved heart, and speaking
sweet words of reunion, of immortality, of glory "which fadeth not
away."




CHAPTER VIII


MORE TRIALS.

The next day Arthur returned to Mr. Martin's. His affectionate heart was
saddened, and every pleasure seemed to have lost its charm. But the
griefs of childhood quickly pass away; and Arthur in a few days became
calm and cheerful. A close observer, however, might have seen a deeper
shade of thoughtfulness in his eyes, and a softer tone in his always
gentle voice. He went to school again, and mingled in his quiet way,
with the sports of his companions. Theodore could not be spared from
home-duties to attend school in the summer months, and Arthur saw much
less of him than formerly. They would meet occasionally after tea, and
with Rover by their side, stroll down by the stream which wound in
fanciful little curves about the lot; or would play at ball, on the
green before the house. Arthur seemed less inclined than usual for noisy
sports, and Theodore sometimes thought he was a sad, stupid playfellow.
One evening about five weeks after Henry's funeral, Mrs. Martin said to
her husband,--

"It seems to me, Arthur is not well to-day. He has complained a great
deal of his head, and his face looks flushed and feverish."

"I haven't noticed him to-day," replied Mr. Martin, "but he certainly is
not a healthy boy, and I am afraid never will be."

The next morning, Arthur refused to eat; and before night a burning
fever had evidently seized upon him. A physician was called, who said at
once,--

"He is a very sick child; his head is so hot, I fear a brain fever. You
had better send for his mother, for mothers I find are generally the
best nurses. He's a fine little fellow, and we must try to save him."

Mr. Martin went himself for Mrs. Hamilton the next morning. It was
indeed heavy tidings that he bore. Was God about to strip her of all she
loved? Her little, tender-hearted Arthur was a precious child, and must
he be taken too? But she quietly prepared to go to him. That was
manifestly her first duty. There was no time for the indulgence of
grief, though heavy forebodings weighed upon her heart.

When Mrs. Hamilton reached the bedside of her child, she found him
delirious, and was shocked to see he did not know her. He was much
sicker than she expected to find him, and her heart sunk within her.

"Is there no hope, Doctor?" she asked, with a quivering lip.

"Certainly there is a chance for a boy of his age; but he is a very sick
child, Mrs. Hamilton. Twill be a hard struggle for life, and it is
impossible to tell what will be the result."

Day after, day, night after night, the mother bent over the sick-bed of
her child; her heart sickening with alternations of hope and fear.
Sometimes the pulse would lessen, and the medicine seem to affect him
favorably, and she would hope her prayers had been heard, and that life
and not death was to be his fate; then the fever would rage with renewed
violence, and his little frame would be convulsed with pain. At no time
did he appear to know who was with him, or have the slightest gleam of
consciousness.

He talked but little, and that incoherently; like one in a dream. Those
were long, sad hours to the anxious mother's heart. "How I lived through
those days and weeks of anguish, I know not," she afterwards said, "but
strength was given me according to the day."

And where was Rover, faithful, affectionate Rover, in these mournful
days? The poor animal moaned and howled perpetually. He would it through
the whole day and night, upon the stairs leading to Arthur's room,
endeavoring to gain admittance, and when driven away, would contrive to
return to his post, watching with intense eagerness those who entered or
left the room; continually making that dismal moaning which a dog in
distress usually does. It was heartrending to hear him. One day, they
allowed him to enter the room, hoping it might quiet him; he jumped upon
the bed instantly, and disturbed the suffering child so much that he was
never permitted to go in again. Poor Arthur! he no longer had a smile or
caress even for Rover, the companion of his lonely hours, the sharer of
his exile! He did not even notice him, except by raising his hand to
keep him off.

Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 23

James was sent the next morning to bear the heavy tidings to Arthur, and
to bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindred
dust.

Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow. He rode back with
James, scarcely speaking a word. He could not feel that Henry was
_dead_; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rouse
himself. But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed in
speechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents.
Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refuse
the healing balm of tears.




CHAPTER VII.


THE GATHERING.

It was thought best to lay Henry's beloved form in the earth on the day
following his death. It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days,
August often brings. Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a cloud
dimmed the sky. One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, with
noiseless step. Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in the
house of death. Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked with
tearful eyes on his peaceful form. The life-like  glow had passed away
from his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearly
visible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon,
diffused over every feature. Aged men and women who had known him from a
child, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched away
from life. The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one from
the adjoining town were there. Both had known Henry, and both had loved
him. Both spoke with tearful eyes and quivering lip of his worth and
loveliness. Holy words of prayer were spoken,--the bereaved mother and
weeping children were commended to God, the only refuge in this hour of
darkness, and fervent intercessions were offered, united with grateful
thanksgivings for all that had been enjoyed in the past, and for all the
cheering hopes which brightened the future. The hymn

   "Why should we mourn departing friends,
     Or shake at death's alarms?"

was read and sung.

Once more the children were all together under the roof where they had
often met; all save the son whose home was now in a sunnier clime. But
how unlike was this to their last joyful gathering! Hours of rejoicing,
and hours of mourning, ye are strangely blended in the experience of
human hearts.

Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 22

I stood beside his dead body an hour after the spirit had left it. I had
never before, and have never since, seen one so beautiful in death. The
last rays of the setting sun streamed softly in at an open window, and
one sweet ray fell upon his head. It was a bright halo,--a glorious
crown, for that sleeping dust to wear. The fair, wide brow, the rich,
dark curls, the softly-closed eyelids, the beautiful mouth, had never
been so lovely.  All was life-like,--radiant. There was an expression of
heavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since. I had not seen him in
his mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have ever
suffered. Can this be death, thought I?--Ah, there is a stillness too
deep for life! Those closed lips do not move; those eyes do not open;
there is no lingering breath, no beating heart! It is only dust. The
spirit _has_ fled! Beautiful sleeper! There shall be no waking of
thy precious dust till the resurrection morning!

Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant to
me to be near one I had loved in life. I went into the sitting-room,
several neighbors were moving about, but the mother was not there. I
found her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom the
depths of her anguish?  Who but He who formed the soul with all its
mysterious capacities for suffering?

The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful in
their summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines;
the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, and
the ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorious
twilight. Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest on
earth; but though the mother's eye was fixed upon the scene, it was
evident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power. What wonder? The
agony was too recent,--the  blighting of all her hopes too sudden for
resignation and peace to come into her soul at once. The heavy blow had
fallen, and her heart was crushed! No tear was in her eye, no trembling
in her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive of
utter woe I have seldom seen. What word of consolation could a mortal
speak at such an hour? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and a
stranger may not inter-meddle with its griefs. Let it be alone with God!

Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 21

CHAPTER VI.


SAD NEWS.

It was a hot Saturday in August, when Henry Hamilton left school to go
home and spend the Sabbath with his mother. This he frequently did, as
it was but ten miles distant, and such a walk was only pastime to the
vigorous youth, now glowing with health and strength in every vein. On
this day however, the walk appeared unusually long to him; and he sat
down twice by the road-side to rest himself. This was very uncommon;
but he said nothing of fatigue when he reached home about sunset. He met
them with his usual cheerful smile, and had a laugh and pleasant words
for the children as they crowded round him. Of all Mrs. Hamilton's
children, Henry was the most sanguine and light-hearted, and when at
home, he was always the life of the family circle. He was sincerely
desirous of gaining a thorough education, and of doing credit to his
patrons and friends, and he hoped to be permitted to accomplish much
good in the world, when he had acquired his profession. There was much
enthusiasm in his character, and much of generous impulse; yet they were
modified by Christian principle. Henry was a sincere Christian. There
was little of noisy pretension, or loud profession; but in his soul was
a deep and abiding sense of obligation to God; a supreme desire to do
his will, and a fervent love to his fellow-men. To a remarkably fine
person, was added an intellect of uncommon quickness and discrimination,
and his teachers spoke in high commendation of his progress. We have
said he was the favorite son of his mother; and if a thrill of pride
passed through her heart as she gazed on his beaming face, if she
garnered up in her inmost soul many precious dreams of a brilliant
future, who can wonder? Who shall blame her?

It is now many years since "the dust fell on that sunny brow," but I
well remember Henry Hamilton--"handsome  Henry Hamilton"--and seldom
indeed since have I seen a more striking form and face. There was a
frank, joyous expression beaming forth from his dark eyes, and his mouth
had always a sweet smile playing about it; there was a high intellectual
forehead, indicating thought, though it was half hidden by the sunny,
brown curls which clustered about it, and gave a youthful look to even
this portion of his face. His tall, well-developed figure was the
perfection of manly symmetry, and his musical laugh was ever ringing out
freely and unconsciously. His temperament was just the reverse of
Arthur's. Bold, courageous, self-relying, he hoped all things, and
feared nothing that man could do; by nature too, he was quick and
passionate, yet full of affection and all generous impulses. Such was
Henry Hamilton, now eighteen years of age--the pride of his family--the
favorite of all who knew him.

The night of his return home, he became violently ill, and no remedies
appeared to relieve his sufferings. I will not pain my young readers
with a recital of his agonies. They were most intense; and on the third
day after he was attacked, at six o'clock in the afternoon, he went from
an earthly to a heavenly home; from the bosom of his mother, to the
bosom of his God! There were few intervals of sufficient ease, to allow
of conversation. During these, he expressed entire confidence in the
Saviour, and perfect submission to the will of God, though death then
was most unexpected  to him. He also expressed regret that he had done
so little for God, and besought a friend who stood by his bedside, to be
faithful to his Christian vows.

The last struggle was a fearful one; but his mother supported him in her
arms to the last; and to her his last look was given,--a look of sweet
affection, trust, and gratitude.