ver the
mountains?'--this parable was Billy's special delight--'He didn't beat
it when He got it, did he? He took it in His arms and carried it home.
And so He will you.'

And Billy, keeping his eyes fastened on Mr. Craig, simply said--

'Will 'E?'

'Sure!' said Craig.

'Will 'E?' he repeated, turning his eyes upon Mrs. Mavor.

'Why, yes, Billy,' she answered cheerily, though the tears were
streaming from her eyes. 'I would, and He loves you far more.'

He looked at her, smiled, and closed his eyes. I put my hand on his
heart; it was fluttering feebly. Again a troubled look passed over his
face.

'My--poor--hold--mother,' he whispered, 'she's--hin--the--wukus.'

'I shall take care of her, Billy,' said Mrs. Mavor, in a clear voice,
and again Billy smiled. Then he turned his eyes to Mr. Craig, and from
him to Geordie, and at last to Mrs. Mavor, where they rested. She bent
over and kissed him twice on the forehead.

'Tell 'er,' he said, with difficulty, ''E's took me 'ome.'

'Yes, Billy!' she cried, gazing into his glazing eyes. He tried to lift
her hand. She kissed him again. He drew one deep breath and lay quite
still.

'Thank the blessed Saviour!' said Mr. Craig, reverently. 'He has taken
him home.'

But Mrs. Mavor held the dead hand tight and sobbed out passionately,
'Oh, Billy, Billy! you helped me once when I needed help! I cannot
forget!'

And Geordie, groaning, 'Ay, laddie, laddie,' passed out into the fading
light of the early evening.

Next day no one went to work, for to all it seemed a sacred day. They
carried him into the little church, and there Mr. Craig spoke of his
long, hard fight, and of his final victory; for he died without a fear,
and with love to the men who, not knowing, had been his death. And there
was no bitterness in any heart, for Mr. Craig read the story of the
sheep, and told how gently He had taken Billy home; but, though no word
was spoken, it was there the League was made again.

They laid him under the pines, beside Lewis Mavor; and the miners threw
sprigs of evergreen into the open grave. When Slavin, sobbing bitterly,
brought his sprig, no one stopped him, though all thought it strange.

As we turned to leave the grave, the light from the evening sun came
softly through the gap in the mountains, and, filling the valley,
touched the trees and the little mound beneath with glory. And I thought
of that other glory, which is brighter than the sun, and was not sorry
tha