s her.

When two have lost each other in a crowd, it is best that one should
stand still and await the other. Perhaps it were best for him to stand
still here in life. Jenny would know where to seek him then--and maybe
the dead had mysterious ways of bringing news to the living. He could
wait a little while and see. For a little he could live--and listen.

CHAPTER XXIII

JENNY'S LYING IN STATE

But there were others besides those who stood so near who mourned Jenny,
passers-by on the road of friendship, who would miss her sunshine in the
streets, and carry with them one bright thought the less for that bright
face that death had thus blown out. There were especially some little
people to whom death was as yet hardly even mysterious, but was merely
perplexing, like many other grown-up things in which their parents were
interested. These were the little scholars of Jenny's Sunday-school
class, to whom simple Jenny had been a personage, quite a great lady,
full of gentleness. To these Jenny was "Teacher," a name of gentle awe;
and to these Teacher was as deeply dear as anyone can be to very
young hearts.

Jenny had felt like a little mother to these little ones, and when she
lay ill her thoughts would often go to them, while from them would come
tiny presents to show how sorry they were that Teacher was ill.

Several times before she grew too ill, Jenny had had her favourites up
in her room on Sunday evenings, to read Bible stories with her, and had
sent them away happy with magnificent text-cards, that had hitherto been
the arduously won rewards of "attention" and the practice of such
school-time virtues over many weeks.

Now, when they heard that Teacher was dead, they felt a vague sorrow.
They knew that people who died were never seen at school any more, and
that people always burst out crying when anyone died; so they cried
bitterly, these little girls, and the hearts of one or two of them
perhaps really ached for a little while. One of them asked the new
teacher, if they would meet their old teacher in heaven, and was told
"Yes, if they were good girls,"--which was something to be good for.

Among the wreaths that already filled Jenny's room with that piercing
smell of lilies which still clung there--unless it were Theophil's
fancy--for many months afterwards, was one sent in loving memory "by her
Sunday-school class"; and it was a part of that informal lying-in-state,
which is an involuntary recognit