falls heavily upon the floor.

'Raise me up, raise me up,' pleads the sick child, after partially
recovering from the shock the fall had given him; and, as he gazes upon
the prostrate form, the white, haggard, insensible features, an angel's
pity and compassion shine in the dying face. 'Oh, I can't kiss _her_,
Charley. Tell poor mamma I _couldn't_ kiss her,' he faintly moans. Then
the fitful strength gives way again, and the tired head droops wearily
on his brother's shoulder. The chilled form creeps closer to a warm
embrace. A little while they hold each other thus--these little ones,
brothers by the ties of blood, bound nearer to each other than any tie
of blood can bind, by the sacred bond of suffering! Then the arm around
poor Charley's neck relaxes its hold, and falls with a dull, lifeless
sound back upon the pillow. The little form grows colder, colder yet. He
has no power to lay it down, no power to cry for help, but sits holding
it, half paralyzed, as he hears them rushing up the stairs, urged wildly
on by the dreadful fear that they have come too late.

There is a piteous supplication in the large, dilated eyes, a mute
prayer for help in the white face he turns upon them as they enter. To
the hurried questions which come pouring forth, the bleached, white lips
make answer:

'He got cold, and went to sleep again; and he has been getting colder
ever since.'

Then the father, stooping, looks into the little face lying on Charley's
shoulder, and, staggering back as if a blow had struck him, cries out:
'Dead!' and the friend that Harry had loved so well raises the curly
head and lays it back upon the pillow. There are no tears in her gentle
eyes for him, for she knows the little, weary heart is resting now on
the great heart of Infinite Love--that he is gone to One who, with
outstretched arms, stood ready to receive him--_One_ who said long ago:
'Suffer little children to come unto Me!'

AN HOUR IN THE GALLERY OF THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.

THIRTY-NINTH ANNUAL EXHIBITION.

Great is the variety in the different classes of men to be found in
picture galleries. First in importance stand the artists, oftentimes
oracular personages, dangerous of approach by outsiders having opinions
(_such_ must generally expect a direct snubbing, polite indifference, or
silent scorn), knowing much but not everything, no single one
infallible, highly honorable as members of a guild, secretive as doctors
or lawyers,