Years passed, and Walter's pen had won for him an honored name. Poverty and care were no longer his companions; many homes were open to him, many hearts would gladly welcome him, but he still lingered in the gloomy house, a serious, solitary man, for his heart lay beneath the daisies of a child's grave. But his life was rich in noble aims and charitable deeds, and with his strong nature softened by the sharp discipline of sorrow, and sweetened by the presence of a generous love, he was content to dwell alone with the memory of little Jamie, in the shadow of “the cross upon the tower.” THE DEATH OF JOHN. This is not a tale, but a true history.--ED. FROM “HOSPITAL SKETCHES.” _HARDLY_ was I settled again, when the inevitable bowl appeared, and its bearer delivered a message I had expected, yet dreaded to receive:-- “John is going, ma'am, and wants to see you, if you can come.” “The moment this boy is asleep; tell him so, and let me know if I am in danger of being too late.” My Ganymede departed, and while I quieted poor Shaw, I thought of John. He came in a day or two after the others; and, one evening, when I entered my “pathetic room,” I found a lately emptied bed occupied by a large, fair man, with a fine face, and the serenest eyes I ever met. One of the earlier comers had often spoken of a friend, who had remained behind, that those apparently worse wounded than himself might reach a shelter first. It seemed a David and Jonathan sort of friendship. The man fretted for his mate, and was never tired of praising John,--his courage, sobriety, self-denial, and unfailing kindliness of heart; always winding up with, “He's an out an' out fine feller, ma'am; you see if he ain't.”