long been very low, and might sink away at any moment. The old dog was
at his feet asleep. The clock ticked in the corner, and the sun was
shining upon the floor. Some friends sat by in silence, with sorrowful
countenances. His little grandchild came to his side, and said,
"Mother says, tell Grandpa Aunt Lucy's gone home."

The old man did not alter his position. For some time he sat in deep
thought, looking out with unseeing gaze, and winding his thumbs, as
before. Of five fair daughters, three had before died by the same
disease, consumption. He had seen them slowly fade away, one by one,
and had followed his children to the grave in the secluded
burying-ground, where the green sod was now to be broken to receive
the fourth.

Rising slowly, he walked across the room, and, taking the well-worn
family Bible, returned with it to his seat; and, as he turned the
leaves, he said in a low tone to himself, "There's only one left now!"
Then he sat entirely silent, with his eyes fixed upon the sacred
page. He did not utter one word of lamentation, he did not shed a
tear, but as he turned his eye on me, in passing, its expression went
to my heart. Stealing softly out, I left him to the silent Comforter
whose blessing is on the mourner.

Now the scene was changed. One was suddenly taken from his side who
had been a companion from boyhood to old age. They had played and
worked in company; together they had embarked on their first voyage,
and their last; and they had settled down in close neighborhood in the
evening of their days. Each had preserved the other's life in some
moment of peril, but took small praise to himself for so simple an act
of duty. Few words of fondness had ever passed between them. They had