God's Throne.

It was the sweet, enchanting strain of a pure and innocent soul registering its determination to be worthy of the God from Whom it sprung.

Day followed day, and week in week out, in sunshine and in rain, Ned sold his papers and won his way. All came to know and admire and love little Irish Ned. His honest, bright, little face and winsome, dimpled smile won him hosts of friends; but he never forgot the dearest friend of all, his good old Granny. And still as long as evening twilight lingered, the setting sun, peeping through the western window in the green frame church, found the two kneeling on the chancel step offering up the prayer of Faith and Love.

CHAPTER IV.

The summer days were ended. The bright fall days were come. All nature had donned her many coloured garments made beautiful by the frost before she laid them away for the winter rest. The world was beautiful, but darkness and dismay reigned in the newspaper offices, for Irish Ned was missing. "No one to take his papers?" "Where is he?" "At home, sick." "What?" "Typhoid fever." Yes; the curse of Winnipeg in its earlier days, the dread disease responsible for so much poverty and suffering, had Ned in its grip, and held him fast. He lay on his bed very, very ill, and his grandmother tried to comfort and soothe and bring him back to health—her darling, her loved one, her only one—but all in vain. His course was run, his hour had come, his brief day of trial was over. "Oh, sir," he said to the Rector, "I know you'll tell me the truth. The doctor won't tell me, and Granny tries to, but she can't, you know, sir; but you will, I know: Am I going to die, sir?" The good man asked, "How do you feel about it yourself, Ned, my son?" And the lad bravely answered, "I think I am, sir." Then the Rector said, "Ned, my own brave boy, you will see Jesus before we do; are you afraid to go to Him?" And the sick boy answered, "No, sir; not now, sir." Quietly and calmly he lay and listened as the Rector told over and over again "the old, old story of Jesus and His love"; and after a simple childlike prayer, in which the minister committed the boy to "God's gracious mercy and protection," the little chap asked them to sing his favourite hymn. With breaking hearts and voices full of emotion they sang the wished-for hymn, the dying boy joining in at the verse—

Along Selkirk Avenue, through North Winnipeg to St. John's, down Main to Portage and Broadway, across the river to Fort Rouge and Norwood flew the news that Irish Ned was dying. Many an eye was filled with tears, many a breast heaved a throbbing sigh, many a heart had an aching load: Irish Ned was dying. Round at the Church and in Sunday School on that clouded Sunday morning they missed the bright, winsome face and dimpled smile, and many a prayer was sent on the wings of faith to the Throne of Grace for the little boy and his lonely friend. Yes, the Angel of Death was waiting to take "home" little Irish Ned. Some of his chums went to see him on Sunday night and sang at his request, "Tell me the old, old Story." Afterwards the Rector went and stayed till the end. A great calm settled down upon the boy. He lay so quietly all night, while his