heart for play, when Frank came in with a look upon his face
which would have prepared Jack for the news if he had seen it. But
he did not look up, and Frank found it so hard to speak, that he
lingered a moment at the piano, as he often did when he came
home. It stood open, and on the rack was the “Jolly Brothers’
Galop,” which he had been learning to play with Ed. Big boy as he
was, the sudden thought that never again would they sit shoulder to
shoulder, thundering the marches or singing the songs both liked
so well, made his eyes fill as he laid away the music, and shut the
instrument, feeling as if he never wanted to touch it again. Then he
went and sat down beside Jack with an arm round his neck, trying
to steady his voice by a natural question before he told the heavy
news.
“What are you reading, Jacky?”
The unusual caress, the very gentle tone, made Jack look up, and
the minute he saw Frank’s face he knew the truth.
“Is Ed—-?” he could not say the hard word, and Frank could only
answer by a nod as he winked fast, for the tears would come. Jack
said no more, but as the book dropped from his knee he hid his
face in the sofa-pillow and lay quite still, not crying, but trying to
make it seem true that his dear Ed had gone away for ever. He
could not do it, and presently turned his head a little to say, in a
despairing tone,
“I don’t see what I shall do without him!”
“I know it’s hard for you. It is for all of us.”
“You’ve got Gus, but now I haven’t anybody. Ed was always so
good to me!” and with the name so many tender recollections
came, that poor Jack broke down in spite of his manful attempts to
smother the sobs in the red pillow.
There was an unconscious reproach in the words, Frank thought;
for he was not as gentle as Ed, and he did not wonder that Jack
loved and mourned for the lost friend like a brother.
“You’ve got me. I’ll be good to you; cry if you want to, I don’t
mind.
There was such a sympathetic choke in Frank’s voice that Jack felt
comforted at once, and when he had had his cry out, which was
very soon, he let Frank pull him up with a bear-like but
affectionate hug, and sat leaning on him as they talked about their
loss, both feeling that there might have been a greater one, and
resolving to love one another very much hereafter.
Mrs. Minot often called Frank the “father-boy,” because he was
now the head of the house, and a sober, reliable fellow for his
years. Usually he did not show much affection except to her, for,
as he once said, “I shall never be too old to kiss my mother,” and
she often wished that he had a little sister, to bring out the softer
side of his character. He domineered over Jack and laughed at his
affectionate little ways, but now when trouble came, he was as
kind and patient as a girl; and when Mamma came in, having
heard the news, she found her “father-boy” comforting his brother
so well that she slipped away without a word, leaving them to
learn one of the sweet lessons sorrow teaches–to lean on one
another, and let each trial bring them closer together.
It is often said that there should be no death or grief in children’s
stories. It is not wise to dwell on the dark and sad side of these
things; but they have also a bright and lovely side, and since even
the youngest, dearest, and most guarded child cannot escape some
knowledge of the great mystery, is it not well to teach them in
simple, cheerful ways that affection sweetens sorrow, and a lovely
life can make death beautiful? I think so, therefore try to tell the
last scene in the history of a boy who really lived and really left
behind him a memory so precious that it will not be soon forgotten