frightened;" but still the eyes questioned him with agonized eagerness, and he knew he must answer, but his voice was very husky, and he felt the task a hard one.

"I'll tell you, Wikkey. I think the King loves you so much that He wants you to come to Him, and not to be ill any more, nor have any more bad pain or coughing. That would be nice, wouldn't it?—never to feel ill any more, and to see the King."

"Yes," Wikkey said, with a long sigh, "it would be ever so nice; but, oh! I don't want for to leave you, Lawrence—won't you come, too?"

"Some day, please God; but that must be as the King likes—perhaps He will not want me to come yet. I must try to do anything He wants me to do here first."

"Should you like to come now, Lawrence?"

The question was rather a relief, for a sense of being unreal had come over Lawrence while he spoke, and he answered quickly—

"No, I had rather not go yet, Wikkey: but you see I am well and strong. I think if I were ill like you I should like it; and you need not feel frightened, for the King will not leave you. He will be taking care of you all the time, and you will go to Him."

"Are you quite certain?"

No room for doubt here—and the answer came unhesitatingly—"Quite certain, Wikkey."

"And you are sure that you'll come too?"

"I wish I were half as certain," the young man thought, with a sigh, then said aloud—"If I try to obey the King I hope I shall."

"But you will try—you will, Lawrence!" cried Wikkey, passionately.

Very quietly and low Lawrence answered—"By God's help—Yes!" and he bent and kissed the child's forehead, as if to seal the vow.

Wikkey seemed satisfied, and in a few minutes was dozing again. He slept for an hour after being put to bed, but then grew restless, and the night passed wearily between intervals of heavy oppression—half-unconscious wakefulness and rambling, incoherent talk, sometimes of his street-life, of his broom, for which he felt about with weak, aimless hands, of cold and hunger; and then he would break out into murmuring complaints of Mrs. Skimmidge, when forbidden words would slip out, and even then the child's look of distress went to Lawrence's heart. But oftenest the wandering talk was of the incidents of the last few weeks, and over and over came the words—"See the King in his beauty."

In the morning Wikkey was quieter and perfectly sensible: but the pinched look on his face, and the heavy labored breathing, told plainly that he was sinking.

Hard as it had been for Lawrence to leave his "little lad," up to this time he had been scrupulous in never allowing Wikkey to interfere with his office duties; but now it seemed impossible to leave the child, who clung feebly to him with a frightened whisper—

"Oh, don't go, Lawrence! p'raps the King will want me, and maybe I shouldn't be so frightened if I kept looking at you."

No, he could not go; so writing a hurried line—"Cannot come to-day—the boy I told you of is dying—the work shall be ready in time," he dispatched it to the head clerk of his department. "Granby's Craze" had at first excited a good deal of astonishment when it became known at the office; but Lawrence had quietly discouraged any attempts at "chaff" on the subject, and as time went on he used to be greeted by really warm inquiries after "the little chap."

The hours passed slowly by. Reginald came and went as he could spare time; sometimes he prayed in such short and simple language as Wikkey could join in—and the expression of his face showed that he did so—sometimes he knelt in silence, praying earnestly for the departing soul, and for Lawrence in his mournful watch. As the day began to wane, Reginald entering, saw that the end was near, and knelt to say the last prayers; as he finished the pale March sun, struggling through the clouds, sent a shaft of soft light into the room and touched Wikkey's closed eyes. They opened with a smile, and raising himself in Lawrence's arms, he leant forward with a look so eager and expectant, that with a thrill of awe, almost amounting to terror, the young man whispered—

"What is it, Wikkey? Do you see anything?"

"Not yet—soon—it's coming," the boy murmured, without altering his fixed gaze; and then for an instant a wondrous light seemed to break over the wan face—only for an instant—for suddenly as it had dawned, it faded out, and with it fled the little spirit, leaving only the frail worn-out form to fall back gently on Lawrence's breast.

Was he gone? Almost incredulously Lawrence looked down, and then, with pale, set features, he rose, and laying Wikkey on the bed, sank on his knees beside it, and buried his face in the pillow, with the sound of a great sob. Reginald approached the bed, and laying his hand for a moment on the bowed head, spoke low and solemnly—

"The blessing of a soul that was ready to perish come upon you, Lawrence."

Then he quitted the room, and closing the door softly, left Lawrence alone with his "little lad."

So Wikkey passed away, and Lawrence went back to his work, ever retaining deep down in his heart the memory of the child whose life had become so strangely interwoven with his own, and more precious still, the lesson bequeathed to him by his "little lad," of how a soul that looks persistently upwards finds its full satisfaction at last in the Vision of "The King in His Beauty."