so early called away, is sure to bring up the remembrance of Rover, and
of his mysterious end.




CHAPTER XI.


THE TWO GRAVES.

It is twenty-two years since Henry and Arthur Hamilton were buried in
that little grave-yard. Last spring, passing by the spot, I got out of
the carriage and entered the quiet little enclosure. I well remembered
where they lay, after this lapse of years, and without difficulty found
the spot. Two small white stones had been erected, and I sat down on the
grass and spent an half hour in gentle musing, and in half-sad,
half-pleasing memories. Once more the manly form and beaming face of
Henry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringing
laugh. I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans for
usefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly he
had sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he had
entered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of the
sudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires.
But were they blighted? Rather, was not all that was good and lovely in
him, still existing and perfecting? Was he not still loving,
sympathizing, rejoicing? True, that outward form was now dust beneath my
feet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed away
from before our eyes; but the warmly-beating soul with all its noble
longings, and rich aspirations, had not perished with it. When, oh when,