CHAPTER VII.


THE GATHERING.

It was thought best to lay Henry's beloved form in the earth on the day
following his death. It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days,
August often brings. Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a cloud
dimmed the sky. One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, with
noiseless step. Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in the
house of death. Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked with
tearful eyes on his peaceful form. The life-like glow had passed away
from his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearly
visible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon,
diffused over every feature. Aged men and women who had known him from a
child, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched away
from life. The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one from
the adjoining town were there. Both had known Henry, and both had loved
him. Both spoke with tearful eyes and quivering lip of his worth and
loveliness. Holy words of prayer were spoken,--the bereaved mother and
weeping children were commended to God, the only refuge in this hour of
darkness, and fervent intercessions were offered, united with grateful
thanksgivings for all that had been enjoyed in the past, and for all the
cheering hopes which brightened the future. The hymn

"Why should we mourn departing friends,
Or shake at death's alarms?"