“Father and Hetty will be with you, and Jesus, too,” the pale lips whispered, and then Bennie’s mind began to wander, and he talked strange things of the Tree of Life, which he said was hung with tapers and beautiful gifts, some of which were for him, and he listened to hear his name, bidding his father and sisters keep very quiet lest he should fail to catch the sound. All night they sat by him, scarcely daring to move, while, with closed eyes and parted lips, he lay listening—listening—till over the snow-clad town the grey morning broke and the Christmas chimes were rung from the church tower; then with a triumphant voice he cried, “There, he has called me at last, little Bennie Hewitt, he said. Didn’t you hear his voice? He’s there, with something for me. I’m going now. Good-bye. Tell Miss Morgan she told me the way, and I love her for it. I wish more ladies would hunt up the poor little boys on the canal. I’m going up the aisle, and the music is playing, too. Such music! oh, Maggie, don’t you hear it? It’s better than the ‘Silent Night,’ and I hear the heavenly hosts sing ‘Alleluia.’ Little Bennie Hewitt they call. Yes, I’m coming—coming—coming. A golden harp and golden crown. That’s what is on the tree for me and joy forever and forever. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.” * * * * * Little Bennie was dead and the Christmas he had looked forward to so eagerly was kept with the Saviour he loved, and when Miss Nellie came to inquire for him she found only a white wasted form which her own hands made ready for the grave. The new suit of clothes which was to have kept him warm, were put upon him, and flowers from the Morgan conservatory were placed in his hands and on his pillow, and over the little coffin bitter tears were shed and promises were renewed as the wretched father whispered to himself, “I’ll keep my word to Ben. I’ll try to be a man.” There’s a small white head stone near the gate in the Rosedale Cemetery, and Bennie’s name is on it. “BENNIE HEWITT. DIED DECEMBER 25, 1883, AGED 9 YEARS.” Strangers pass it by and think nothing of it, but God knows all about that little grave and the boy sleeping there, and when the Golden City shall indeed come down and Christ’s saints be gathered home, Bennie will be with them, where there is no more night, or need of sun or moon, for the glory from the Eternal Throne transcends the light of noonday and Christ is all in all. * * * * * Does my story seem a sad one to you, my little readers? In one sense it is, and in another it is not. It is always sad to see the children die, but when like Bennie they go from cold and hunger and toil, to be forever with the Lord it is for them a blessed thing, so, on Christmas morning of 1884 do not think of little Bennie, as in the grave where they laid him one year ago, but