No more prattling at unseasonable times--no more crying--no more singing--no more laughing; all these interruptions were quiet now, and altogether gone--'Little man! little Fairy! Oh, was it possible!' But memory would call up the vicar from his half-written sermon. He would miss his troublesome little man, when the sun shone out that he used to welcome--when the birds hopped on the window-stone, to find the crumbs that little man used to strew there; and when his own little canary--'Birdie' he used to call him--would sing and twitter in his cage--and the time came to walk out on his lonely visits. He must walk alone by the shop-doors--where the little man was so admired--and up the mill-road, and in the castle meadow and over the stile where they used to sit. Poor Dolly! Her Willie would not tell her yet. He kneeled down in the study--'Little man's' top, and some cut paper nondescripts, were lying where he had left them, at his elbow--and he tried to pray, and then he remembered that his darling ought to know that he was going into the presence of his Maker. Yes, he would tell poor Dolly first, and then his little man. He would repeat his hymn with him, and pray--and so he went up the nursery stairs. Poor Dolly, very tired, had gone to lie down for a little. He would not disturb her--no, let her enjoy for an hour more her happy illusion. When he went into the nursery little Fairy was sitting up, taking his medicine; the nurse's arm round his thin shoulders. He sat down beside him, weeping gently, his thin face turned a little away, and his hand on the coverlet. Little man looked wonderingly from his tired eyes on Wapsie, and his thin fingers crept on his hand, and Wapsie turned about, drying his eyes, and said-- 'Little man! my darling!' 'He's like himself, Sir, while he's sitting up--his little head quite right again.' 'My head's quite right, Wapsie,' the little man whispered, sadly. 'Thank God, my darling!' said the vicar. The tears were running down his cheeks while he parted little Fairy's golden hair with his fingers. 'When I am quite well again,' whispered the little man, 'won't you bring me to the castle meadow, where the wee river is, and we'll float races with daisies and buttercups--the way you did on my birthday.' 'They say that little mannikin----' suddenly the vicar stopped. 'They say that little mannikin won't get well.' 'And am I always to be sick, here in my little bed, Wapsie?' whispered little Fairy, in his dreamy, earnest way, that was new to him. 'No, darling; not always sick: you'll be happier than ever--but not here; little man will be taken by his Saviour, that loves him best of all--and he'll be in heaven--and only have a short time to wait, and maybe his poor Wapsie will come to him, please God, and his darling mamma--and we'll all be happy together, for ever, and never be sick or sorry any more, my treasure--my little Fairy--my darling.'