Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone marked the spot of their repose. Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony, upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult; all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth. Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God taken my sister from me?” “Because she would be better off, Arthur.” “Why did he not take me, too? _I_ would be better off in the still grave.” “It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.” “Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look. “Because, God will be angry with you.” “He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot. * * * * * The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the bright beings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently without an aim; while the ministers of flesh poured incense on unhallowed altars, to obscure their vision and lure them to earth. A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started. “Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while you sit here,” was said by a boy, apparently several years his senior, who had arisen from a bed in the room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued, “Don’t mind them, Arthur—I would not mind what they say. The whole crew have about as much sense as their _Poodle_, on which the entire stock of their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the rascally old fellow threaten to flog you, after making such a fuss to get you back. But that’s the old woman’s fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her ‘sweet Adonis’s paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if you could have heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable little dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk enough to go to see your sister.” “I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I don’t care what they say or do to me now.” “Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?” laying his arm coaxingly upon his shoulder.