‘There is for them no promise,’ was the wretched mother’s answer. ‘Then I shall never see pa again. Tell him good-by, good-by forever.’ The next time he spoke it was to ask his mother to come near to him, that he might see her face once more. She did so, bending low and stifling her own great agony, lest it should add one pang to his dying hour. ‘I cannot see you,’ he whispered, ‘it is so dark—so dark.’ Oh, what would not that mother have given then for one of the lights which gleamed from the windows of the stately mansion where Eddie Hastings was watched by careful attendants. But it could not be, and when at last the silvery moon-beams came struggling through the open window and fell upon the white brow of the little boy they did not rouse him, for a far more glorious light had dawned upon his immortal vision—even the light of the Everlasting. * * * * * In her tasteful boudoir sat Lina Hastings, and at her side, on a silken lounge, lay Eddie, calmly sleeping. The crisis was past—she knew he would live, and her cup of happiness was full. Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by the sound of a tolling bell. ’Twas the same which, but for God’s mercy, would at that moment, perhaps, have tolled for her boy, and Lina involuntarily shuddered as she listened to the strokes, which, at first, were far between. Then they came faster, and as Lina counted five, she said aloud, ‘’Twas a child but two years older than Eddie.’ Later in the day it came to her that the bereaved one was her early friend, whom now she seldom met. Once Lina would have flown to Mabel’s side, and poured into her ear words of comfort, but her heart had grown hard and selfish, and so she only said, ‘Poor Mabel, she never was as fortunate as I’—and her eyes glanced proudly around the elegantly-furnished room, falling at last upon Eddie, whom she clasped to her bosom passionately, but without thought of Him who had decreed that not then should she be written childless. * * * * * The humble funeral was over. The soft, green turf had been broken, and the bright June flowers had fallen beneath the old sexton’s spade as he dug the little grave where Willie Parkham was laid to rest. In the drunkard’s home there was again darkness and a silence which would never be broken by the prattle of the childish voice. Sobered, repentant, and heartbroken, the wretched father laid his head in the lap of his faithful wife, beseeching of her to pray that the vow that morning breathed by Willie’s coffin and renewed by Willie’s grave might be kept unbroken. And she did pray, poor Mabel. With her arms around the neck of the weeping man, she asked that this, her great bereavement, might be sanctified to the salvation of her erring husband.