A certain great man died, and the tidings was carried swiftly and far, for his name was known to many nations. All over the land there were public demonstrations of mourning, and numberless and eloquent were the eulogies pronounced. Thus he who, living, had been laden with honors and distinctions, went in pomp and honor to his burial. Yet somehow we do not hear that any one was really very sorry because of his death, much less that any little children wept because of it. Had his greatness been like a high wall, concealing whatever was sunny and winsome in his nature? On the same hillside where that great man was laid to rest there is a new-made grave beneath the cedars, and not very many people know anything about it; but among those who do there is a void, as when the fire goes out upon the hearth-stone, and all is cold and desolate. “It is no small thing to be missed by one’s friends when he is away from them.” Little did he consider, who spoke thus, how truly those words would soon apply to himself. And here one might pause to ponder. Which is preferable—to be so great and renowned that when one dies the news will be told abroad in the world, or to be so genial and lovable that even a little child will weep at the sight of his vacant chair? When we are sleeping in our graves so still, When we are sleeping in our graves so low, Ah, who will care to know? Ah, who will? A wee bird made its nest out in the porch last May, and lived there the summer long. But the summer is gone, and the winter is come again, and the bird has flown away, and the nest is empty, and the snow is on it and on the ground, and the clouds are gray and threatening, and again the wind wails at the casements, moans down the chimney. Lem, coming in to replenish the fire, sees the form shivering over it in spite of the warmth, sees the wide, tearless eyes, with the new, strange look in them, sees the carpet strewn with remnants of a rare and fragrant bouquet, Harry’s gift, torn to bits by nervous fingers. “Miss Katy,” and he lays his hand gently on her head, “try to think of something else; jess try. Think of all the poor folks you an’ Mr. Harry’s got on the dockit, an’ what’ll become of ’em if you don’t pick up sperrits an’ help ’im look after ’em a little. Come, they’s no time to be settin’ here idle!” You would hardly guess his voice was choking, and that tears were streaming down his black face. “Oh, Lem,” she answers drearily, “I’m tired; I’m tired of living. I can’t care for anything any more.” “But you _must_ care, honey. What’ll become of poor old ’Liza an’ me if Katy goes off an’ leaves us too?” But she only hovers more closely over the fire, staring at it vacantly. And the wind moans and wails down the chimney.