'Certain, certain,' said Mr. Jenkins; 'tell your mother -he was the hero of the day-tell her all the comfort you can, boy, and-and-well, Mr. Keddie will be coming down to see her by-and-by; that is the best way I can think of. Tell her there has been awful slaughter in the 21st, but they won the day, and their country will never forget them, never!'

'I don't like to say all that to mother,' said Ned, hesitating; 'it rather sounds as if father was not safe; and it would almost kill her if anything was to happen to him; I don't know that it wouldn't quite. I wish the mail 'was in.'

'God was on the battle-field with your father, Ned, and He is at home with your mother. He'll order everything for the best. He is a good, kind God—the husband of the widow, and the father of the fatherless, you know. We must trust in Him, boy; we must trust in Him;' and Mr. Jenkins laid his great brawny hand on the boy's head. It was almost as if he was blessing him, and so Ned felt, as the solemn words sank into his heart.

Yes, Sir,' he said; 'mother tells us that every day when Kitty or grandmother begins to worry about father; but they will be glad to hear the good news. I don't think father has got hurt, do you? He was so good, God would take care of him, I know He would.'

'Yes, Ned; but we mustn't feel too certain. It is very often those that are the best that God calls. If your father was prepared to go, He might have taken him and spared some poor sinner who wasn't ready. We don't know; we must be prepared for whatever we may hear. A cannon

ball goes where it is sent, and there is no saying anything but that God has the care of it, and it won't do any harm but what He allows-never. It is all God, boy, all God; we may be sure of that.'

By this time Ned had walked to the door, and once more had his hand upon the latch.

'It isn't just right,' said Jem Jones, slowly shaking his head, 'to let him go home so; some one ought to give him a hint; but, dear me, I wouldn't now for anything! You tell him, Brown.'

Mr. Brown, thus advised, called out in a loud tone: 'Edward Randall, there isn't no use in trying to make bad news good, because you must know it some day. Your father was killed-shot to pieces; but he died gloriously, all say.'

The shriek which came from the boy no one that heard it ever forgot. If Mr. Brown had been all his lifetime willing-perhaps a little eager to communicate bad news, the look, the posture, the agony of that child so came before him as to keep him silent now.

'Don't,' said Mr. Jenkins, taking Ned's outstretched hands quickly in his, and soothing him gently; 'don't, there; keep up, and try to be a brave boy, worthy of such a father.' Ned shivered as if a hand had struck him, and his arms fell. Mr. Jenkins drew him to him, and pressed the boy's head down close over his own great, warm heart.

'Don't take it too hard. It's dreadful, I know; but it's God!-it's God! Don't you know I told you it was ?' Ned groaned, and rested his head on the collar of the shaggy overcoat that was round him. He had no thought

B

that it belonged to Mr. Jenkins, and that it was the butcher that held him; he had only a sense of protection. Already a feeling of desolation, a cold, numbed, aching feeling, had come to his heart. He was groping in this first moment of his affliction for sympathy and kindness, and God had sent it to him.

'There, now, that's a man; you must keep up right smart and brave, for all those that are at home, because your mother will have to depend upon you now, you know, and your grandmother too, and all those pretty little sisters of yours. That's right; don't-don't-will you now? Bear it like a man. Yes, you may cry-it will do you good.' Mr. Jenkins felt the tears falling on his hands. The harder the better. It's being a man to cry; for we know Who did weep at a grave once, don't we?' Mr. Jenkins drew the back of one of his hands quickly over his own eyes, and several of the old men who were looking on felt an unwonted moisture gather in theirs, as Ned's smothered sobs filled the shop.

'It's a hard measure,' said Jem Jones, and it comes on those who are least able to bear it, like most such things. It is a wicked war, and there isn't any good in it that I can see,-nothing but misery.'

'Well, there is a blessed end to be accomplished by it one of these days. No one can say that the freedom of so many slaves is not a great good.'

By this time Ned had raised his head, wiped the tears away, and was moving with staggering, uncertain steps. again toward the door. Mr. Jenkins opened it for him, and said,

'You will break the news to her in a kind and careful manner, won't you, Ned?'

'I can't!-I can't!' and Ned burst again into an agony of weeping.

'No more you can, and you shouldn't be asked to do SO. You go back and sit down close by the stove, and I will go to Mr. Keddie; he is good and kind, and knows what it is to lose friends. He will go to your mother, and prepare her a little. You just stop.'

'O! I must go to mother!' groaned Ned; she will need me so much; but I can't tell her.' 'Well, then, go home; but don't you say any thing until Mr. Keddie comes. She won't inquire, perhaps.'

Ned went slowly out. The air was crisp with the chill November wind; dead leaves were flying about in small circles on the hard, brown earth; the dull, grey sky seemed almost to touch the chimneys of the houses up and down the street; and the rushing water beat with a cold, sharp sound against the piles of the shop, and the piles of the bridge, and the tall rocks that hung far out over it Those who have felt some great, unexpected sorrow will pity Ned on this long walk home.

CHAPTER II.

NED'S HOME.

HE house which Mr. Randall had hired for his family, before leaving for the war, was a neat, small house, just out of the town. It stood by itself; but as it had been previously owned and occupied by a person of taste and cultivation, there were many little things in and around it which made it a desirable place. The description which the men in the butcher's shop had given of Mr. Randall was not far from correct. He never seemed to be able to 'get along,' and provide comfortably for the support of his family. It will not be necessary for our story to enter into the reasons why, but it is enough to state that for the first time since her early married life, Mrs. Randall had found herself, after her husband left for the war, in circumstances which promised, when their little debts were paid, comparative ease and comfort. He had been away nearly a year, but during that time had written so often and so cheerfully home, that it may be doubted whether the actual peril in which he was placed ever had made as deep an impression on his wife's mind as upon many others. Certain it is, that her