CHAPTER XIV.

PASSING AWAY.

BUT all this time, while John Shafto was drawing nearer and nearer to the grave, and what lay beyond it, Sandy had never realized the fact. He had often seen people as ill, who lay on comfortless beds in crowded rooms, with faces quite as worn and pale, but without the pleasant smile that always shone in John Shafto's eyes whenever he looked at him. More than this, though John sometimes spoke of dying, it was always as of something so familiar to him, and so little dreaded by him, that it never seemed as if he meant the same gloomy thing as death was when it came into the dark homes Sandy had known, and carried away one after another to nothing else but the pauper coffin and the forgotten grave.

The truth broke upon Sandy at last, with the shock of a great surprise and bitter sorrow. He had bid Johnny good-bye in the morning, and gone away whistling merrily to his work, dreading no trouble during the day.

But when he reached home again in the evening, he found Mr. Shafto weeping bitterly, with his face hidden upon his hands, and his head resting on the little table, round which they had been used to sit together. The fire had burned low, and the ashes were strewn about the hearth—all the room looked as if some sudden calamity had fallen upon the house. The only light came through the door into the shop which he had left open, through which could be seen the child's coffin lying on the counter, and the rusty plumes hanging heavy and dark against the wall. Mr. Shafto was groaning heavy heart-breaking groans, which made Sandy shrink and shiver with a feeling of dread.

"Is there anythink very bad the matter?" he ventured to ask, after standing silent for a little while.

"Is that you, Sandy?" asked Mr. Shafto, in a broken voice.

"Ay, it's me!" he answered. "Can I do anythink?"

"Johnny's wanting you," said Mr. Shafto; "he's been asking all the afternoon how long it would be before you came home."

Sandy scarcely heard the last words, for he was already mounting the winding staircase with a swift though quiet footstep. The low room where he and John slept was lighter than the kitchen below, though dim enough with only the light of one candle. But he could see John's face, white and shining, with a brightness in the eyes such as he had never seen there before, and a look which seemed all at once as if it must break Sandy's heart.

"Oh, Johnny!" he cried. "Little Gip's lost; and now you're goin' to die and leave me!"

He fell down on his knees at the foot of the bed, and buried his face in the clothes. Was it not too dreadful to be true? The love he had felt for little Gip had been transferred to John Shafto. After losing her, his heart, which had been hungry for something to love, had turned to him and clung to him as it had done to her. Very gradually he had been comforted for her loss, though he had never ceased to think of her; and now he was going away too! He did not see how he himself could continue to live in a world where there was neither little Gip nor John Shafto.

"Sandy!" said a very feeble, very low voice. "Sandy!"

"I can't let you go!" cried Sandy, "don't you die, Johnny. Don't you go away and leave me. What am I to do if you die, and I can't see you again, never? Oh, Johnny! don't you die, and leave me."

"Sandy," said John's failing voice again, "I must die; and you'll have mother, you know. She's promised me to be like your own mother, and I want you to promise you'll be like me to her. You must take my place. Oh, Sandy! I shall die happier if you promise always to love mother, and be like a son to her."

"I can't be like you," answered Sandy; "I'm not good, like you. I don't know hardly anythink yet about God, and Jesus, and heaven. If it hadn't been for you, I shouldn't have known anythink about it; and I'm afeard I shall forget it all if you die, and go away."

He could not bear the thought that he should forget God; yet it seemed in this hour of darkness that if John Shafto died, he must fall back into the old ignorance and wickedness, and know nothing more than the sin and misery of this world. Who was to teach him as John had done? Who would there be to tell him so plainly and so surely that the Lord Jesus Christ, who was seeking him, was ready at every moment to take care of him? He could not see Christ, nor hear Him; and if John were gone, how could he feel certain that it was all true?

"Sandy," said John Shafto, "you love me?"

"Ay!" sobbed Sandy.

"You believe what I tell you?" he said again.

"Ay!" he answered.

"By-and-by," continued the faint, low voice, "You'll feel like that towards Jesus Christ. It's just the same thing. You'll love me and believe me after I'm gone, when you can't see me or hear me. And you must love and believe in Him exactly the same, though you can't see or hear Him. He loves you more than I do, a hundred times, a thousand times more. I don't think it's a different kind of love, only it's a thousand times more and better. He's done everything I've asked Him for you, save one."

"What's that?" asked Sandy, lifting up his head to look with dimmed eyes into John's face.

"I did so want you to find Gip before I died," he whispered; "poor little Gip! I'd like to see her. And you'd have been so happy, it wouldn't have been half the trouble to you for me to die. If she's in heaven, I shall see her there; and perhaps Jesus Himself will show me which one of the little children she is. I should tell her all about you, Sandy. But if she's not dead, I did so want to see her just for once."

"I've almost forgot what she's like," said Sandy, with some bitterness in his tone; "I ought to have found her afore this, if I are to know her again."

"Perhaps she's in heaven!" murmured John, and then his voice was silent, and his languid eyes closed.

A shiver of dread ran through Sandy; but John had only fallen asleep through weakness for a few minutes, and Mrs. Shafto, whom he had not noticed before, leaned forward, and held up her hand to warn him not to make any noise. He did not stir, and scarcely dared to breathe, but knelt still, watching John with intent, eager eyes, as if he could not bear to look away, and lose sight for one moment of that dear face, which was so soon to be hidden from him.

"Sandy!" said John, waking and speaking again suddenly, as if he had not been sleeping at all. "Do you see my mother?"

"Ay!" he answered, glancing towards her for a moment.

"You'll be a good son to her?" he said.

Sandy could not speak again, but he covered his face once more with his hard brown hands.

John Shafto turned to his mother with a tender smile.

"I'll promise for him," he said; "he'll be a good son to you, and some day you'll wear blue ribbons for him and be very happy again. Look at him, mother. Why! isn't it something like what Jesus said upon the cross to John? 'Behold thy mother!' And to His mother, 'Behold thy son!' It is something like that. 'And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home.' Sandy's sure to be a good son to you, mother."

"I'll take him in your place," said Mrs. Shafto; "but oh, Johnny, Johnny! if the Lord had only spared you to me!"

They were silent again for a minute or two; and John Shafto, with his feeble fingers, drew his mother's hand across his lips, and kissed it tenderly.

"I'm not going just yet," he said soothingly; "we shall still have a little while together. Mother, I wish I could see Mr. Mason again; but, if I do, it must be soon. It will be too late to-morrow."

"I'll run and fetch him," cried Sandy; "he were askin' after you only this mornin, and he'll be glad to come. Only don't you go while I'm away."

He stopped for one moment to kiss John Shafto, with a sharp pang of fear lest he should never see him alive again. Then he ran downstairs, and rushed away through the dark street, at a swifter pace than he had ever run before, crying to himself over and over again, half aloud, "Johnny 'ill be dead afore I can get back again."

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