It seemed as if his head was continually lifting his body upward, and he was so light he could fly.

After lying this way for some minutes, his hand, which rested in that of Tom's, would suddenly tighten with incredible strength, and he would rise in bed and begin a wild, incoherent rambling, which filled the hearts of the others with anguish.

It was just growing dusk, when Jim, who had exchanged a few words of sense with his weeping friend, said, lying motionless on his pillow, and without apparent excitement,--

"Tom, I'm dying."

"O Jim! don't say that," sobbed the broken-hearted lad. "You must get well. You are young and strong; you must throw off this sickness: keep up a good heart."

The poor boy shook his head.

"It's no use. I wish I had been a better boy; but I've said my prayers night and morning, and tried to do as mother and father used to tell me to do. Tom, try to be better; I tell you, you won't be sorry when you come to die."

"No one could have been better than you, Jim," said the elder, feeling more calmness than he had yet shown. He realized he was bending in the awful shadow of death, and that but a few more words could pa.s.s between him find the one he loved so well.

"I haven't been half as good as I ought to--not half as good as you, Tom."

"O Jim! you should not say that."

"He is right," whispered Mrs. Pitcairn, standing at the foot of the bed, beside her husband; "he will be with us but a few minutes longer. How do you feel," she asked gently, "now that you must soon go, Jim?"

"I am sorry to leave you and Tom, but it's all right. I see mother and Maggie and father," he replied, looking toward the ceiling; "they are bending over me, they are waiting to take my hand; I am glad to be with them--Tom, kiss me good-by."

With the tears blinding his eyes, and holding the hot hand within his own warm pressure, Tom Gordon pressed his lips on those of Jim Travers, and, as he held them there, the spirit of the poor orphan wanderer took its flight.

The door gently opened a minute later and the physician stepped inside.

One glance told him the truth.

"I knew it was coming when I looked at him this morning," he remarked, in a soft, sympathetic voice. "Nothing could save him. How do you all feel?"

It seemed cruel to ask the question of the three all standing in the presence of death; but it was professional and it was wise, for, by pressing it, he withdrew their thoughts from the overwhelming sorrow that was crushing them.

Tom Gordon had flung himself on the bed with uncontrollable sorrow. One arm lay over the breast and partly round the neck of the body, which breathed no longer, and whose face was lit up by a beatific smile; for Jim Travers was with mother and Maggie and father, and they should go out no more forever.

Chapter XIX.

It is not well to dwell upon the second great affliction of Tom Gordon. He was older now than when his mother died, and though bowed to the earth by the loss of his cherished playmate, he was too sensible to brood over his grief. Short as had been his stay at the home of Farmer Pitcairn, he had made friends, and they were abundant with the best of counsel.

There is no remedy for mental trouble like hard work. There's nothing the equal of it. When the dark shadow comes, apply yourself with might and main to some duty. Do your utmost to concentrate your thoughts, energies, and whole being upon it. Avoid sitting down in the gloom and bemoaning your affliction. By and by it will soften; and, relying upon the goodness of Him who doeth all things well, you will see the kindly providence which overrules all the affairs of this life. With the gentle poet you will be able to murmur:--

/P "Sweet the hour of tribulation, When the heart can freely sigh, And the tear of resignation Twinkles in the mournful eye."

P/

Jim Travers was laid away to rest in the beautiful country cemetery near the home of Farmer Pitcairn, and between it and the town of Bellemore. In due time a plain, tasteful shaft was erected to his memory, on which, below his name, date of birth and death, were carved the expressive words:--

"He was a tried and true friend."

It took a good deal of the earnings of Tom Gordon to erect this tribute to the departed youth. Mr. Pitcairn and his wife insisted upon sharing a part of the expense; and the youth could not refuse them, though he would not permit it to be more than a trifle as compared with his own. The placing of the shaft has led me to antic.i.p.ate events somewhat.

Tom Gordon was approaching young manhood. He was a tall, st.u.r.dy boy, with a fair education, and it was high time that he set to work at the serious business of life. Providence had ordered that he should pa.s.s through more than one stirring experience. He had knocked about the world a good deal more than falls to the lot of most lads of his age, and had acquired valuable knowledge. He had learned much of the ways of men, and had undergone a schooling, rough of itself, but fitted to qualify him for the rebuffs of fortune to which we must all become accustomed.

What should he do? This was the question which he often debated with himself, as was befitting in a sensible youth, who feared the danger of a mistake when standing at the "crossing of the ways."

Somehow he felt a strong dislike to going back to New York. He and Jim had met with such rough treatment there that the memory was not pleasant. His yearning was to stay in the neighborhood of Bellemore. The soothing flow of the beautiful Hudson, the picturesque, restful scenery, and, above all, the sweet, sad halo that lingered around the last abiding place of his friend, held him to the spot, which would ever be a sacred one to him.

He could not fancy the life of a farmer, though nothing would have pleased Mr. Pitcairn more than to have the strong, thoughtful boy prepare himself to become his successor in the management of the thrifty and well-kept place. While Tom was in this state of incert.i.tude, Providence opened the way, as it always does to the one who is waiting to accept the indication.

It was at the close of a mild day in early summer that he was sitting on the front porch of his new home, talking with Mr. Pitcairn and his wife, when a carriage stopped in front, and an elderly gentleman stepped down, tied his horse, and opened the gate.

"Why, that's Mr. Warmore," said Farmer Pitcairn to his wife, as he rose to greet his visitor, who walked briskly up the graveled path.

The appearance of the gentleman was prepossessing. He was tall and spare, but with a benign expression of countenance. He was well dressed, wore gold spectacles, and his scant hair and a tuft of whiskers on either side of his cheeks were snowy white, while his features were regular. He must have been an unusually handsome man in his younger days, and would still attract admiration wherever seen.

He shook hands warmly with the farmer and his wife, and was introduced to Tom, whom he treated with the same cordiality. The youth made haste to place a chair at his disposal, for which Mr. Warmore thanked him, and sitting down, crossed his legs, took off his hat, and wiped his perspiring brow with his white silken handkerchief. The chat went on in the usual way for a time, during which Tom discovered that the visitor showed considerable interest in him. His eyes continually turned in his direction, and he asked him a question now and then. The youth was too modest to intrude in the conversation, but knew how to express himself when asked to do so.

By and by the questions of Mr. Warmore became quite pointed. Once or twice Tom was disposed to resent them; but reflecting that the gentleman was much older than he, and could have no wrong purpose in thus probing into his personal affairs, he replied promptly to all he asked.

Finally, when this had continued until it began growing dark, Mr. Warmore said,--

"I wish to hire you to enter my store, how would you like it?"

The question was so unexpected that Tom was fairly taken off his feet. He replied with a pleasing laugh,--

"How can I answer, when I never saw you before, and have no idea of what your business is?"

"True, neither of us has seen the other until to-day; but I may say that I have heard of you from our pastor, Dr. Williams, who conducted the services of your young friend, that was buried a week ago."

"He cannot know much about me, though we have had several talks together."

"He talked, too, with Mr. Pitcairn here, as I did myself."

"Yes," said the farmer, "he asked me many questions about you, and so did Mr. Warmore the other day when I was in his place."

"I keep the largest store in Bellemore. I have kept it for forty years, as did my father before me. It is what may be called a combination establishment. My father started it toward the close of the last century, when a journey to New York meant a great deal more than it does to-day. So he tried to provide the neighbors with everything they could need, such as dry goods, groceries, hardware, farmers' implements, and, as I said, about all that a large and growing family are likely to require. I have followed in his footsteps, expanding the business, until now my clerks and a.s.sistants number nearly a dozen. I am in need of a large, strong, wide awake, active boy, who can write a good hand, and who is willing to begin at the lowest round of the ladder and work his way up."

It was the personality of the man, rather than the business, which attracted Tom Gordon. He liked Mr. Warmore so well that he secretly resolve to go with him. But the youth was not lacking in diplomacy.

"How do you know I will suit you, Mr. Warmore?" he asked.

"I don't; no one can know how another will serve him until the trial is made. You may not suit at all. Perhaps I won't keep you beyond a week.

That's a risk we must all take. I'm willing to take it. Are _you_ ready to see how you like me and the business?"

"What is to be my pay?" asked Tom, still veiling his growing inclination to accept the proposal of the merchant.