"Not he," said the landlady, when she heard of it; "he'll never play it
again, he's a dying man, by what the doctor says."

"Just you go and ask him if he wasn't turning his old organ in the
middle of last night," said a man from the far corner of the room. "I'll
bet you a shilling he was."

The landlady went upstairs to satisfy his curiosity, and rapped at the
attic door. No one answered, so she opened it and went in. Christie was
fast asleep, stretched upon the bed where his old master's body lay. The
tears had dried on his cheeks, and he was resting his head on one of old
Treffy's cold, withered hands. The landlady's face grew grave, and she
instinctively shuddered in the presence of death.

Christie woke with a start, and looked up in her face with a bewildered
expression. He could not remember at first what had happened. But in a
moment it all came back to him, and he turned over and moaned.

The landlady was touched by the boy's sorrow, but she was a rough woman,
and knew little of the way of showing sympathy; and Christie was not
sorry when she went downstairs and left him to himself. As soon as the
house was quiet, he brought a neighbor to attend to old Treffy's body,
and then crept out to tell the clergyman.

Mr. Wilton felt very deeply for the desolate child. Once again he
committed him to his loving Father, to the Friend who would never leave
him nor forsake him. And when Christie was gone he again knelt down, and
thanked God with a very full heart for having allowed him to be the poor
weak instrument in bringing this soul to Himself. There would be one at
least at the beautiful gates of "Home, sweet Home," watching for his
homegoing steps. Old Treffy would be waiting for him there. Oh, how good
God had been to him! It was with a thankful heart that he sat down to
prepare his sermon for the next day, on the last verse of the hymn. And
what he had just heard of old Treffy helped him much in the realization
of the bright city of which he was to speak.

Mr. Wilton looked anxiously for Christie, when he entered the crowded
mission-room on Sunday evening. Yes, Christie was there, sitting as
usual on the front bench, with a very pale and sorrowful face, and with
heavy downcast eyes. And when the hymn was being sung, the clergyman
noticed that the tears were running down the boy's cheeks, though he
rubbed them away with his sleeve as fast as they came. But Christie
looked up almost with a smile when the cle