men than the aspect of Charles Taylor. “Hush, sir,” sharply rebuked his mother, and the minister’s voice again stole over the silence. “For as much as it has pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we, therefore, commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile bodies that they may be like unto His glorious body, according to the mighty working whereby He is able to subdue all things to himself.” Every word came home to Charles Taylor’s senses, every syllable vibrated upon his heart-strings; that sure and certain hope laid hold of his soul never again to leave it. It diffused its own holy peace and calm in his troubled mind, and never until that moment did he fully realize the worth, the truth of her legacy. “Tell him that I am but gone on before,” a few years. God, now present with him alone, knew how few or how many, and Charles Taylor would have joined her in eternal life. But why did the minister come to a temporary pause? Because his eyes had fallen upon one then coming up from the entrance of the burying ground to take his place among the mourners, and who had evidently arrived in a hurry. He wore neither scarf nor hat-band, nothing but a full suit of plain black clothes. “Look, mamma,” cried a little boy. It was George Taylor, the cousin of Charles Taylor. He stood quietly by the side of his cousin, his hat in his hand, his head bowed, his curly hair waiving in the breeze. It was all the work of an instant, and the minister continued: “I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write, from henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, even so, sayeth the spirit, for they rest from their labors,” and so went on the service to the end. The passage having been cleared, several mourning carriages were in waiting. Charles Taylor come forth leaning on his cousin’s arm, both of them still bare headed. They entered one, the friends and relatives filled the others, and soon several men were shovelling earth upon the coffin as fast as they could, sending it with a rattle on the bright plate which told who was moldering within, Janey Brewster, aged twenty-one years. “Charles,” cried his cousin George, leaning forward and seizing his cousin’s hand impulsively, as the carriage moved slowly on, “I should have been here in good time, but for a delay in the train.” “Where did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you,” calmly asked Charles. “I heard of it in Gray Town and I came up here at once; Charles, could they not save her?” A slight negative movement was all Charles Taylor’s answer.