calmly he lay and listened as the Rector told over
and over again "the old, old story of Jesus and His love"; and after a
simple childlike prayer, in which the minister committed the boy to
"God's gracious mercy and protection," the little chap asked them to
sing his favourite hymn. With breaking hearts and voices full of
emotion they sang the wished-for hymn, the dying boy joining in at the
verse--

"In the glad morning of my day,
My life to give, my vows to pay,
With no reserve and no delay,
With all my heart I come."

Along Selkirk Avenue, through North Winnipeg to St. John's, down Main
to Portage and Broadway, across the river to Fort Rouge and Norwood
flew the news that Irish Ned was dying. Many an eye was filled with
tears, many a breast heaved a throbbing sigh, many a heart had an
aching load: Irish Ned was dying. Round at the Church and in Sunday
School on that clouded Sunday morning they missed the bright, winsome
face and dimpled smile, and many a prayer was sent on the wings of
faith to the Throne of Grace for the little boy and his lonely friend.
Yes, the Angel of Death was waiting to take "home" little Irish Ned.
Some of his chums went to see him on Sunday night and sang at his
request, "Tell me the old, old Story." Afterwards the Rector went and
stayed till the end. A great calm settled down upon the boy. He lay so
quietly all night, while his grandmother clasped one hand in hers and
with her other gently brushed back the fair hair from his brow. At
last, after a long silence, he said, "Say 'Just as I am' for me." Again
they said it. Then the Rector read the Prayers for the Dying. As the
dawn was breaking, the sun gilding spires and housetops, and the
sparrows twittering their morning hymn of praise on the eaves, with the
words, "Lord of my life, I come," upon his lips, little Irish Ned gave
a gentle sigh, and yielded up his spirit to the God who gave it.

He was dead. The world without was bathed in sunshine, but all was dark
to her he loved, now left alone. His little bird was singing merrily in
its cage, "but the strong heart of its child master was mute and
motionless forever." For the last time earth had felt the springing
tread, and listened to the merry whistle of little Irish Ned.

They buried him in the cemetery at Brookside, far removed from the
city's noise in which he so loved to mingle, far from the haunts and
the turmoils and the troubles of men. As the Rector with cho