ave him. "It's all right
now," he continued slowly, and with greater effort, for the little
strength he had left was fast leaving him. "You will be taken care of,
mother, and Bob will be taken care of by Herbert," he went on, sinking
into a half unconscious state. "I know they will do well and will make
rich men and have everything in the world that they want. I wish I
could see them then with a big banking house and clerks and private
offices and errand boys and electric bells and fine carriages and horses
and a brown stone house in the avenue, may be."

[Illustration: TOM FLANNERY'S DEATHBED.]

In a little while he regained full consciousness as if by a powerful
effort, and said in a faint whisper:

"There is one thing more, mother--my knife, my little brass knife."

Mrs. Flannery brought it and placed it in his thin hands.

He looked at it with such a strange expression of affection--a little
well worn knife of inexpensive make. How long he had carried it in his
pocket, how many times he had held it in his hand, and now--yes, now, he
held it for the last time--only this little knife, yet his all, his only
legacy.

"You won't want it, will you, mother?" said he, with moist eyes and
struggling with emotion.

"No, no, Tommy," sobbed the broken hearted mother.

"I knew you wouldn't," said he, "for I want to give it to Bob. It ain't
much, I know, Bob," he continued, addressing the latter; "but it's all I
have. You will keep it, won't you, to remember me by? When you get to be
a man--a rich business man with fine offices and a house of your own,
look at this knife sometimes--my knife, and think of me, and how we used
to work together. Yes, you will do so, won't you, Bob?"

"I will, Tom, I will," answered Bob, as he took the little knife into
his own hands. "I will keep it always to remind me of you," and he bowed
his head upon the bed beside his dying friend and cried with sincere
grief.

"It's all right now," responded the sufferer. "All right," he repeated,
as his mother pressed her lips to his forehead.

"All right," again, so feebly that the last word fainted half spoken by
his dying lips.

In a few moments the last death struggle was over. He was gone,
poor Tom, the honest, trustful boy with a pure heart and noble
friendship--cut off in the morning of his life by a sickness brought on
by exposure, and an exposure made necessary that he might earn the means
to supply his humble wants. A cruel world this