It was now about seven of the morning, and the sun about an hour above the horizon streamed gloriously into the room. It shone on the table, the sofa, on the big chair where Helen and Martin as little children used to sit together, looking at Bible pictures. And she sat down in that chair now. The big things had been said between her father and her, and as they waited now both turned to little memories of the past. “Martin used to sit by me,” she said. “Yes; and then you grew too big. After that you used each to have a chair, one on each side of me.” “And we did our lessons there,” said Helen. Then she stopped suddenly, for there was a foot on the stairs. Nurse Baker came in. “You must both come,” she said. * * * * * The blind was drawn up in Martin’s room, and the same wonderful sun flooded the room, and outside many thrushes were singing. There was but little apparatus of medicine there,--it was just a boy’s clean room: cricket bats and racquets stood in one corner, on the table there was a heap of music, school-books were in the bookcase by the door. And on the bed lay Martin. His eyes were still open, but they were blind and unseeing no more, and he turned them wearily to the door when Helen and his father entered. But when he saw them, they brightened a little. The doctor had stood back from the bed, Nurse Baker was by him. Then Martin spoke. “It is nice to be in my own room again,” he said in a voice just audible. “Oh, good-morning, Helen; good-morning, father. I have had horrible dreams, father. I dreamed you were angry with me. How silly. You are not angry?” Mr. Challoner came up to the bed, and knelt there, his arm resting on the blanket. “No, dear lad,” he said. “I am not; indeed, I am not.” Martin shifted his position a little. “I’m glad,” he said, “because I’m so tired. Helen, I played well, really well, did I?” “Yes, Martin; Karl Rusoff said--he said nobody ever played better.” And she was silent because she could not say any more just then. “And what is to-day?” asked Martin at length. “It is Easter Sunday, dear Martin,” said his father. Martin half raised his head. “I ought to be at Mass,” he said, “but I can’t. It doesn’t matter, does it, if one can’t?” His father came a little closer yet. “No, dear boy,” he said. “It is Mass everywhere this morning. He was crucified, and this morning He rose again. That is all the world holds, and the heaven of heavens.” “Yes, all,” said the boy. “And to-day----“ The whisper in which he had spoken died, and Dr. Thaxter took a step towards the bed, looked at him a moment, and then went back again. For a minute or two Martin lay there quite still; then he put out his two hands on each side of the bed, one towards Helen, one to his father. “I am awfully tired,” he said, “and I can’t talk. But I can listen still. Is Stella here?” “No, Martin,” said Helen; “but she is coming as quickly as she can.”