The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1877-06-14

would have saved his life could hay
died for him. But l could not hel
| him could not guide or corntol
| him. l was not now unnervfd-hi
fortitude had braced my mind: but
was miserably conscious of beln
without power to save him or to Civ
him ease. He was suffering greatly
What could do? What could say
| mingled my broken prayers witt
his and once l began to encourag
him-nOt to hope for life-death wa
coming too fast for that but to bea
the inevitable, and to go up to Coo
without fear. l broke down in it,an(
the brave, self-forgetting fellow pu
his hand on my head and cried :"DOn
weep SO! 1t is all right, God knows'
Tell my mother" and SO he com
forted me by making me his messen
ger of comfort to her.
In q few moments we saw the caml
fire, q lurid blur on the haze,andGrem'
pulled toward il steadily, but with al
his strength. 1 suppose we reached
the camp in as quick time as could
have been made-but it seemed inter
minable. Once, as Creme, rowing
hard all the while. was blaming him
self tor not having seen that the gur
was safely placed before we started
Hal opened his eyes, raised himself
little, and looking him full and earn
es,ly in the face exclaimed, mo, no
GremeI 1t was my own fault. Re
member that. No one is to blame bu
myself. Tell them so-at home
and he sank back exhausted.
As soon as we had lifted him ashore
and under c0yer-he tainted as we
laid him down-Greme started for 8
surgeon.
1t was hopeless, the nearest doctor
was thirty miles away-bat still il
was relief to do it.
Zeph, the guide we had left at the
camp, stupefied with sleep. and only
half realizing what had occurred .Obey.
ed my directions mechanically and
blunderingly. He was kind-hearted
and willing enough. but after his hard
work he had slept too soundly tc
shake itoff. l knew that my time
with Harry was short, and as soon al
he recovered from his swoon 1 tolG
Zeph to go out by the fire and to come
when called him.
In half an hour our beautiful, noble
hearted Hal lay dead in my arms.
The fame of life frightened up IL
him once more just before it went out
and for few minutes he was like his
old self, except for his paleness and
the weakness of his voice. His mind
grew still more clear aud calm, and he
said-what cannot write for the
eyes of strangers-but words which
are to-day the treasure of more hearts
than one. His death was painless. Il
came like slumber.
L w
was to be done did reverently an
tenderly myself. A heavy burde,
was pressing me down; but l grew
strong to bear it-and q peculiar
peaceful quiet stole into my heart
And when at last looked on him-ai
his mother would see him soon-and
re arranged his wavy hair q little, till
it had the natural lOok--and lifted one
of his hands and put it where it would
rest easily-all that was terrible in his
death passed away. 1t seemed hap.
py thing that death was now behind
him forever-that not even its shadow
would fall upon him again.
knew that he would not feel the
chill of the night air, yet I covered
him up with my shawl remember
even tucking it in about him, as !
would have done if he had been alive
and then, touching his white fore
head with my lips, l went and sat in
the door of the tent.
1t was q sacred night. The sky was
fecked by q few fleecy clouds, hover
ing there like white robed angels that
had come from the higher heavens.
Bey6nl them the stars that were
strong enough to shine through the
moonlight cleaned with a softencd
splendor. The mirror of the placid
lake was hidden by the mist; and
above it, on the opposite shore, the
trees of the forest, which clothed the
hill- stood silent aud solemn,as if they
knew that he was dead.
The fire had burned down low. 1
had no heart to renew it. Its crack.
ling, its restless Aames,and all it's live.
ly companionship, would have panied
me. l wanted to muse on what had
happened. and on what was before me
aud above me. 1 never had been so
moved by the thought of death. The
dark door had opened and closed
quickly. had seen through it; and
for the first time in my life l realized
my Immortality. think it had been
a peradventnre to me hitherto now il
became definite, immutable faith
Ny questionings had suddenly ended.
Until then 1 had searched for argu.
ments and they had given me at bes,
but probabilities, and these. not free
from grave difficulties. | had found
only instructive desires. and doubtful
intuitions and analogies. Now I rest.
ed on assertion. found myself be.
lieving it on the word of Him of Naz.
areth. AS the soul Of dear Hal had
struggled toward Him, he had led
mine.
Once in the midst of that long still
night. 1 turned upon myself, and said
"You believe these assertions now
because you sodnt to believe them."
could not answer myself--but my
faith remained. 1t has never beer