The agony of the hour, when it is said of a beloved one, "he is dead," has never--nor can it be justly portrayed. Then it is that Hope plumes her wing and soars afar--then it is the even, the clear eye of Faith seems dimmed. When the truth burst upon the mother's heart that her child was no more--when she felt that her grief had now no power to afflict the childish heart that had idolized her--then did the pent up torrents of agony rush forth, crushing every barrier, and threatening to overwhelm her soul in their mighty depth. Yet was she comforted--the glorious imaginings that she had so faithfully and forcibly portrayed to the dying one had fastened upon her soul--and when the first wild burst of grief was over, she turned from the coffined face to the upper world, as though she would say, "not here--but there." * * * * * Once more a childish group gathered around Willie M----. His eye smiled no welcome, his hand returned no pressure, but as he lay enshrouded in the garments of the grave, methought he was even more lovely than when his face was glowing with life. A smile still wreathed the parted lips, as though the happy spirit had returned to the tenement of clay, breathing of the blessedness of its glorious home. Each imprinted a kiss on the placid brow, and as the icy chill of death met their lips, so full of life and warmth, the reality of their loss was felt by all. Gary Lincoln lingered until she placed within those little hands a cluster of white rose-buds--"Flowers, pale flowers"--they were love's last gift. Now came the hopeless anguish of the last look--the suspension of almost life, as the dear remains are lowered to their resting-place--and, worse than all, the hollow, maddening sound of the falling earth upon the coffin, sealing the doom of the bereaved, making complete their misery. They laid him to rest amid the bloom and shade of Mount Auburn, and his grave is a shrine around which those who loved him come, bringing ever with them the offering of gentle thoughts and pleasant memories of him who sleeps below. Little hands deck it with garlands, and sweet Cary Lincoln has placed a tuft of early violets above the sacred spot--for, said she, "Willie loved violets so well." For months after his death, during the "long bright summer hours," a child was seen almost daily to visit his grave, lingering when all had gone. It was Lillias--and I thought if the departed spirit were hovering near, how often it would echo those words, "_They_ are all gone, yet _thou_, my sweet Lillias, art with me still."