wn
warm pressure, Tom Gordon pressed his lips on those of Jim Travers, and,
as he held them there, the spirit of the poor orphan wanderer took its
flight.

The door gently opened a minute later and the physician stepped inside.
One glance told him the truth.

"I knew it was coming when I looked at him this morning," he remarked, in
a soft, sympathetic voice. "Nothing could save him. How do you all feel?"

It seemed cruel to ask the question of the three all standing in the
presence of death; but it was professional and it was wise, for, by
pressing it, he withdrew their thoughts from the overwhelming sorrow that
was crushing them.

Tom Gordon had flung himself on the bed with uncontrollable sorrow. One
arm lay over the breast and partly round the neck of the body, which
breathed no longer, and whose face was lit up by a beatific smile; for Jim
Travers was with mother and Maggie and father, and they should go out no
more forever.

Chapter XIX.

It is not well to dwell upon the second great affliction of Tom Gordon. He
was older now than when his mother died, and though bowed to the earth by
the loss of his cherished playmate, he was too sensible to brood over his
grief. Short as had been his stay at the home of Farmer Pitcairn, he had
made friends, and they were abundant with the best of counsel.

There is no remedy for mental trouble like hard work. There's nothing the
equal of it. When the dark shadow comes, apply yourself with might and
main to some duty. Do your utmost to concentrate your thoughts, energies,
and whole being upon it. Avoid sitting down in the gloom and bemoaning
your affliction. By and by it will soften; and, relying upon the goodness
of Him who doeth all things well, you will see the kindly providence which
overrules all the affairs of this life. With the gentle poet you will be
able to murmur:--

/P
"Sweet the hour of tribulation,
When the heart can freely sigh,
And the tear of resignation
Twinkles in the mournful eye."
P/

Jim Travers was laid away to rest in the beautiful country cemetery near
the home of Farmer Pitcairn, and between it and the town of Bellemore. In
due time a plain, tasteful shaft was erected to his memory, on which,
below his name, date of birth and death, were carved the expressive
words:--

"He was a tried and true friend."

It took a good deal of the earnings of Tom Gordon to erect this tribute to
the departed youth. Mr. Pitcair