One evening I had been reading to mother, and afterward I went up to
Dot. He had been very feverish and had suffered much all day, and
Allan had scarcely left him; but toward evening he had grown quieter.
I found Jack beside him; they were making up garlands for the grave;
it was Dot's only occupation just now.

"Look here, Essie," he cried, eagerly. "Is not this a splendid
wreath? We are making it all of pansies--they were father's favorite
flowers. He always called them floral butterflies. Fancy a wreath of
butterflies!" and Dot gave a weak little laugh. It was a very ghost
of a laugh, but it was his first, and I hailed it joyfully. I praised
the quaint stiff wreath. In its way it was picturesque. The rich hues
of the pansies blended well--violet and gold; it was a pretty idea,
laying heartsease on the breast that would never know anxiety again.

"When I get better," continued Dot, "I am going to make such a
beautiful little garden by dear father. Jack and I have been planning
it. We are going to have rose-trees and lilies of the valley and
sweet peas--father was so fond of sweet peas; and in the spring
snowdrops and crocuses and violets. Allan says I may do it."

"Yes, surely, Dot."

"I wonder what father is doing now?" he exclaimed, suddenly, putting
by the unfinished wreath a little wearily. "I think the worst of
people dying is that we cannot find out what they are doing," and his
eyes grew large and wistful. Alas! Dot, herein lies the sting of
death--silence so insupportable and unbroken!