le spirit; and then a heavier chord told of the
coming of a darker hour when the mother lay dying. The violin fairly
sobbed and groaned and wailed, as if the spirit of unconsolable grief
were tugging heavily at the strings. Anon, a bell tolled solemnly out of
it and its heavy knell clanged through the room. And then the music
rested for a minute; and in the silence it seemed as if the grave came
into sight as plainly as if the eyes of all were actually looking at its
open mouth. Again the music sounded, and the sods, one after another,
fell on the coffin, dull and heavy, changing to a gravelly, smothered
sound as the grave filled. Once more it paused, and then a clear, sweet
strain arose, sad, but pure and fine and hopeful, as voice of angels
could have sung it, trustful and resigned. The bow stopped again; for a
moment the violin was silent. And then the Lad lifted his face and,
laying the bow softly upon the strings, began to play what all
instinctively felt was a hymn to the spirit of his mother. Slowly,
softly, sweetly, as the strains which the dying sometimes hear, the
pure, clear, smooth notes stole out into the hushed air. It was playing,
not such as mortal plays to mortal, but such as spirit plays to spirit
and soul to soul, to-night, across the street of heaven. The Lad still
used an earthly instrument and touched its strings with mortal fingers;
but never, while they live, will those who heard that hymn believe that
anything less than the spirit of the boy drew from the instrument the
notes that filled the room with their divine sweetness. Indeed, the Lad
did not act as if he were conscious of his body or of bodily presences
around him. His face was lifted and his eyes, from which the tears were
streaming, were gazing upward, not as if into vacancy, but as if they
saw the bright being that had passed within the veil, standing in all
the beauty of her transfiguration before them. For a smile was on the
boy's lips, even while the tears were rolling down his cheeks. And when,
at last, the arm suspended its motion; when the sweet notes ceased to
sound and the last chord had died away, the Lad still kept his uplifted
posture and his features held the same rapt expression.

The company sat motionless, their gaze fastened on the Lad. Not an eye
was without its tear. The cheeks of the old Trapper were wet; and
Herbert, touched by some memory or overcome by the pathos of the music,
was actually sobbing. The old man, wit