t, died in this city
late on Saturday night. At the _matinee_ of the 'Naiad
Queen' on the afternoon of that day, when little James
Speaight came off the stage, after giving his usual violin
performance, Mr. Shewell {1} noticed that he appeared
fatigued, and asked if he felt ill. He replied that he had a
pain in his heart, and then Mr. Shewell suggested that he
remain away from the evening performance. He retired quite
early, and about midnight his father heard him say,
'_Gracious God, make room for another little child in
Heaven._' No sound was heard after this, and his father
spoke to him soon afterwards; he received no answer, but
found his child dead."

1 The stage-manager.

The printed letters grew dim and melted into each other, as I tried to
re-read them.

I glanced across the table at Charley and Talbot eating their breakfast,
with the slanted sunlight from the window turning their curls into real
gold, and I had not the heart to tell them what had happened.

Of all the prayers that floated up to heaven, that Saturday night, from
the bedsides of sorrowful men and women, or from the cots of innocent
children, what accents could have fallen more piteously and tenderly
upon the ear of a listening angel than the prayer of little James
Speaight! He knew he was dying. The faith he had learned, perhaps while
running at his mother's side, in some green English lane, came to him
then. He remembered it was Christ who said, "Suffer the little children
to come unto me;" and the beautiful prayer rose to his lips, "Gracious
God, make room for another little child in Heaven."

I folded up the newspaper silently, and throughout the day I did not
speak before the boys of the little violinist's death; but when the time
came for our customary chat in the nursery, I told the story to Charley
and Talbot. I do not think that they understood it very well, and still
less did they understand why I lingered so much longer than usual by
their bedside that Sunday night.

As I sat there in the dimly lighted room, it seemed to me that I could
hear, in the pauses of the winter wind, faintly and doubtfully somewhere
in the distance, the sound of the little violin.

Ah, that little violin!--a cherished relic now. Perhaps it plays soft,
plaintive airs all by itself, in the place where it is kept, missing the
touch of the baby fingers which used to waken it into life!