"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself. You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"--and here his voice quivered--"it is just possible that you might be useful to your mother." That was enough. I stood erect to show him how brave I could be. Then he took me in his arms. "My dearest little Laura," he said, "two angels have been with us during the night--the angel of life and the angel of death. You have had a little brother, but he only lived one hour. Now he is dead, and mamma is very dangerously ill. Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect rest she will not get better--there must not be a sound in the house." A little brother! At first my child's mind was so filled with wonder I could not realize what it meant. How often I had longed for brothers and sisters! Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see him. "I should like to see my little brother, papa--if I may," I said. He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes, then answered: "I am quite sure you may, Laura; I will take you." We went, without making even the faintest sound, to the pretty rooms that had been set aside as nurseries. One of them had been beautifully decorated with white lace and flowers. There in the midst stood the berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child. My father took me up to it--at first I saw only the flowers, pale snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet waxen face with closed eyes and lips. Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no horrors for me. "May I kiss him, papa?" I asked. Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed with us for a few hours at least? I should like to have seen his pretty eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was, they were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death. "Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived?" I asked. "Your mother's favorite name--Gerald," he replied. "Ah, Laura, had he lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child--who knows what manner of man this child might have been or what he might have done?" "Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life?" I asked. "Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father. I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again. "Good-by, my little brother," I said. Ah! where shall I see his face again? CHAPTER IV.