The child had sobbed himself to sleep on the sofa, and David had gone. * * * * * O, the pity of it, that we keep the heart's-ease of our appreciation to wreathe cold coffin-lids, and cover unresponsive clay! There was a constant stream of people passing in and out of the boarding-house parlor all day. Bethany was not surprised at the great number who came to do honor to Baxter Trent, nor at the tearful accounts of his helpful ministrations from those he had befriended. But as she arranged the great masses of flowers they brought, she thought sadly, "O, why didn't they send these when he was in such sore need of love and sympathy? Now it's too late to make any difference." All sorts of people came. A man whose wrists had not yet forgotten the chafing of a convict's shackles, touched one of the lilies that Bethany had placed on the table at the head of the casket. "He lived white!" the man said, shaking his head mournfully. "I reckon he was ready to go if ever any body was." They happened to be alone in the room, and Bethany repeated what the nurse had told her of the doctor's triumphant passing. Late in the afternoon there was a timid knock at the door. Bethany opened it, and saw two little waifs holding each other's cold, red hands. One had a ragged shawl pinned over her head, and the other wore a big, flapping sunbonnet, turned back from her thin, pitiful face. Their teeth were chattering with cold and bashfulness. "Missus," faltered the larger one, "we couldn't get no wreaves or crosses, but granny said he would like this ''cause it's so bright and gold-lookin'.'" The dirty little hand held out a stemless, yellow chrysanthemum. "Come in, dears," said Bethany softly, opening the door wide to the little ragamuffins. They glanced around the mass of blossoms filling the room, with a look of astonishment that so much beauty could be found in one place. "Jess," whispered the oldest one to her sister, "'Pears like our 'n don't show up for much, beside all these. I wisht he knowed we walked a mile through the snow to fetch it, and how sorry we was." Bethany heard the disappointed whisper. "Did you know him well?" she asked. "I should rather say," answered the child. "He kep' us from starvin', all the time granny was down sick so long." "An' once he took me and Jess ridin' with him, away out in the country, and he let us get out in a field and pick lots of yellow flowers, something like this, only littler. Didn't he, Jess?" The other child nodded, saying, as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her sister's shawl, "Granny says we'll never have another friend like him while the world stands." Deeply touched, Bethany held up the stemless chrysanthemum. "See," she said, "I'm going to put it in the best place of all, right here by his hand." The door opened again to admit David Herschel. Before it closed the children had slipped bashfully away, still hand in hand.