Once more the family stood together under the cottage roof; once more the neighbors and friends one by one, silently passed in; once more a coffin stood upon the table, and aged men and women, and middle-aged and children looked into it with weeping eyes; once more stifled sobs were heard; once more that mother with her children sat in the inner room; but not all; all were not there. The pale weeping boy was no longer clinging to his mother's side. He slept; and tears would never dim his eyelids more.

Sweet, gentle Arthur; his dust was now fair to look upon. He had never been a beautiful child, but his face wore a sweet and mild expression in life, and it was serene and sweet in death. Once more, the voice of prayer was heard, and the sweet hymn was sung; once more they walked to the place of graves; and he, who just eight weeks before had stood weeping there, was now gently laid down to sleep "that sleep, which knows not waking" till "the trump of God shall sound."

"Unvail thy bosom, faithful tomb!
Take this new treasure to thy trust;
And give these sacred relics room
To slumber in the silent dust."

Once more, slowly and sadly, the stricken family went to their home, now still more vacant--still more desolate! Once more Christian faith shed its soul-cheering light into the aching heart; once more the sorrowing found "there was balm in Gilead, and a physician there."