sh of feeling came
over him that he stopped short in the middle and moved on without
finishing it. The passers-by were surprised at the sudden pause in the
tune, and still more so at the tears which were running down Christie's
cheeks. They little thought that the last time he had played that tune
had been in the room of death, and that whilst he was playing it his
dearest friend on earth had passed away into the true "Home, sweet
Home." But Christie knew, and the notes of the tune brought back the
recollection of that midnight hour. And he could not make up his mind to
go on playing till he had looked up into the blue sky and asked for help
to rejoice in old Treffy's joy. And then the chorus came very sweetly to
him, "Home, sweet home; there's no place like home; there's no place
like home." "And old Treffy's there at last," said Christie to himself
as he finished playing.

One day, about a week after Treffy's funeral, Christie went up the
suburban road, in the hopes of seeing poor little Miss Mabel once more.
He had never forgotten her sorrowful little face at the window of the
funeral coach. And when we are in sorrow ourselves, it does us good to
see and sympathize with those who are in sorrow also. Christie felt it
would be a great comfort to him to see the little girl. He wanted to
hear all about her mother, and when it was that she had gone to "Home,
sweet Home."

But when Christie reached the house he stood still in astonishment. The
pretty garden was there just as usual, a bed of heartseases was blooming
in the sunshine, and the stocks and forget-me-nots were in full flower.
But the house looked very deserted and strange; the shutters of the
lower rooms were up, and the bed-rooms had no blinds in the windows and
looked empty and forlorn. And in the nursery window, instead of little
Mabel and Charlie's merry faces, there was a cross-looking old woman
with her head bent down over her knitting.

What could be the matter? Where were the children gone? surely no one
else was lying dead in the house. Christie felt that he could not go
home without finding out; he must ask the old woman. So he stood at the
garden-gate, and turned the handle of the organ, hoping that she would
look out and speak to him. But, beyond a passing glance, she gave no
sign that she even heard it, but went on diligently with her work.

At length Christie could wait no longer; so stopping suddenly in the
middle of "Poor Mary Ann," he walked