"Why, I've just gone to bed; it can't be morning yet;" and Demiblinked like a little owl as he waked from his first sound sleep.

"It's only ten, but your father is ill, and we must go to him. O mylittle John! my poor little John!" and Aunt Jo laid her head downon the pillow with a sob that scared sleep from Demi's eyes andfilled his heart with fear and wonder; for he dimly felt why AuntJo called him "John," and wept over him as if some loss had comethat left him poor. He clung to her without a word, and in a minuteshe was quite steady again, and said, with a tender kiss as she sawhis troubled face,

"We are going to say good-by to him, my darling, and there is notime to lose; so dress quickly and come to me in my room. I mustgo to Daisy."

"Yes, I will;" and when Aunt Jo was gone, little Demi got upquietly, dressed as if in a dream, and leaving Tommy fast asleepwent away through the silent house, feeling that something newand sorrowful was going to happen something that set him apartfrom the other boys for a time, and made the world seem as darkand still and strange as those familiar rooms did in the night. Acarriage sent by Mr. Laurie stood before the door. Daisy was soonready, and the brother and sister held each other by the hand all theway into town, as they drove swiftly and silently with aunt anduncle through the shadowy roads to say good-by to father.

None of the boys but Franz and Emil knew what had happened,and when they came down next morning, great was theirwonderment and discomfort, for the house seemed forlorn withoutits master and mistress. Breakfast was a dismal meal with nocheery Mrs. Jo behind the teapots; and when school-time came,Father Bhaer's place was empty. They wandered about in adisconsolate kind of way for an hour, waiting for news and hopingit would be all right with Demi's father, for good John Brooke wasmuch beloved by the boys. Ten o'clock came, and no one arrivedto relieve their anxiety. They did not feel like playing, yet the timedragged heavily, and they sat about listless and sober. All at once,Franz got up, and said, in his persuasive way,

"Look here, boys! let's go into school and do our lessons just as ifUncle was here. It will make the day go faster, and will pleasehim, I know."

"But who will hear us say them?" asked Jack.

"I will; I don't know much more than you do, but I'm the oldesthere, and I'll try to fill Uncle's place till he comes, if you don'tmind."

Something in the modest, serious way Franz said this impressedthe boys, for, though the poor lad's eyes were red with quiet cryingfor Uncle John in that long sad night, there was a new manlinessabout him, as if he had already begun to feel the cares and troublesof life, and tried to take them bravely.

"I will, for one," and Emil went to his seat, remembering thatobedience to his superior officer is a seaman's first duty.

The others followed; Franz took his uncle's seat, and for an hourorder reigned. Lessons were learned and said, and Franz made apatient, pleasant teacher, wisely omitting such lessons as he wasnot equal to, and keeping order more by the unconscious dignitythat sorrow gave him than by any words of his own. The little boyswere reading when a step was heard in the hall, and every onelooked up to read the news in Mr. Bhaer's face as he came in. Thekind face told them instantly that Demi had no father now, for itwas worn and pale, and full of tender grief, which left him nowords with which to answer Rob, as he ran to him, saying,reproachfully,

"What made you go and leave me in the night, papa?"

The memory of the other father who had left his children in thenight, never to return, made Mr. Bhaer hold his own boy close,and, for a minute, hide his face in Robby's curly hair. Emil laid hishead down on his arms, Franz, went to put his hand on his uncle'sshoulder, his boyish face pale with sympathy and sorrow, and theothers sat so still that the soft rustle of the falling leaves outsidewas distinctly heard.

Rob did not clearly understand what had happened, but he hated tosee papa unhappy, so he lifted up the bent head, and said, in hischirpy little voice,

"Don't cry, mein Vater! we were all so good, we did our lessons,without you, and Franz was the master."

Mr. Bhaer looked up then, tried to smile, and said in a gratefultone that made the lads feel like saints, "I thank you very much, myboys. It was a beautiful way to help and comfort me. I shall notforget it, I assure you."

"Franz proposed it, and was a first-rate master, too," said Nat; andthe others gave a murmur of assent most gratifying to the youngdominie.

Mr. Bhaer put Rob down, and, standing up, put his arm round histall nephew's shoulder, as he said, with a look of genuine pleasure,

"This makes my hard day easier, and gives me confidence in youall. I am needed there in town, and must leave you for some hours.I thought to give you a holiday, or send some of you home, but ifyou like to stay and go on as you have begun, I shall be glad andproud of my good boys."

"We'll stay;" "We'd rather;" "Franz can see to us;" cried several,delighted with the confidence shown in them.

"Isn't Marmar coming home?" asked Rob, wistfully; for homewithout "Marmar" was the world without the sun to him.

"We shall both come to-night; but dear Aunt Meg needs Mothermore than you do now, and I know you like to lend her for a littlewhile."

"Well, I will; but Teddy's been crying for her, and he slappedNursey, and was dreadful naughty," answered Rob, as if the newsmight bring mother home.

"Where is my little man?" asked Mr. Bhaer.

"Dan took him out, to keep him quiet. He's all right now," saidFranz, pointing to the window, through which they could see Dandrawing baby in his little wagon, with the dogs frolicking abouthim.

"I won't see him, it would only upset him again; but tell Dan Ileave Teddy in his care. You older boys I trust to manageyourselves for a day. Franz will direct you, and Silas is here to oversee matters. So good-by till to-night."

"Just tell me a word about Uncle John," said Emil, detaining Mr.Bhaer, as he was about hurrying away again.

"He was only ill a few hours, and died as he has lived, socheerfully, so peacefully, that it seems a sin to mar the beauty of itwith any violent or selfish grief. We were in time to say good-by:and Daisy and Demi were in his arms as he fell asleep on AuntMeg's breast. No more now, I cannot bear it," and Mr. Bhaer wenthastily away quite bowed with grief, for in John Brooke he had lostboth friend and brother, and there was no one left to take his place.

All that day the house was very still; the small boys played quietlyin the nursery; the others, feeling as if Sunday had come in themiddle of the week, spent it in walking, sitting in the willow, oramong their pets, all talking much of "Uncle John," and feelingthat something gentle, just, and strong, had gone out of their littleworld, leaving a sense of loss that deepened every hour. At dusk,Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer came home alone, for Demi and Daisy weretheir mother's best comfort now, and could not leave her. PoorMrs. Jo seemed quite spent, and evidently needed the same sort ofcomfort, for her first words, as she came up the stairs, were,"Where is my baby?"

"Here I is," answered a little voice, as Dan put Teddy into herarms, adding, as she hugged him close, "My Danny tooked tare ofme all day, and I was dood."

Mrs. Jo turned to thank the faithful nurse, but Dan was waving offthe boys, who had gathered in the hall to meet her, and was saying,in a low voice, "Keep back; she don't want to be bothered with usnow."

"No, don't keep back. I want you all. Come in and see me, myboys. I've neglected you all day," and Mrs. Jo held out her hands tothem as they gathered round and escorted her into her own room,saying little, but expressing much by affectionate looks and clumsylittle efforts to show their sorrow and sympathy.

"I am so tired, I will lie here and cuddle Teddy, and you shall bringme in some tea," she said, trying to speak cheerfully for theirsakes.

A general stampede into the dining-room followed, and thesupper-table would have been ravaged if Mr. Bhaer had notinterfered. It was agreed that one squad should carry in themother's tea, and another bring it out. The four nearest and dearestclaimed the first honor, so Franz bore the teapot, Emil the bread,Rob the milk, and Teddy insisted on carrying the sugar basin,which was lighter by several lumps when it arrived than when itstarted. Some women might have found it annoying at such a timeto have boys creaking in and out, upsetting cups and rattlingspoons in violent efforts to be quiet and helpful; but it suited Mrs.Jo, because just then her heart was very tender; and rememberingthat many of her boys were fatherless or motherless, she yearnedover them, and found comfort in their blundering affection. It wasthe sort of food that did her more good than the very thickbread-and-butter that they gave her, and the rough Commodore'sbroken whisper,

"Bear up, Aunty, it's a hard blow; but we'll weather it somehow;"cheered her more than the sloppy cup he brought her, full of tea asbitter as if some salt tear of his own had dropped into it on theway. When supper was over, a second deputation removed thetray; and Dan said, holding out his arms for sleepy little Teddy,

"Let me put him to bed, you're so tired, Mother."

"Will you go with him, lovey?" asked Mrs. Jo of her small lord andmaster, who lay on her arm among the sofa-pillows.

"Torse I will;" and he was proudly carried off by his faithfulbearer.

"I wish I could do something," said Nat, with a sigh, as Franzleaned over the sofa, and softly stroked Aunt Jo's hot forehead.

"You can, dear. Go and get your violin, and play me the sweetlittle airs Uncle Teddy sent you last. Music will comfort me betterthan any thing else to-night."

Nat flew for his fiddle, and, sitting just outside her door, played ashe had never done before, for now his heart was in it, and seemedto magnetize his fingers. The other lads sat quietly upon the steps,keeping watch that no new-comer should disturb the house; Franzlingered at his post; and so, soothed, served, and guarded by herboys, poor Mrs. Jo slept at last, and forgot her sorrow for an hour.

Two quiet days, and on the third Mr. Bhaer came in just afterschool, with a note in his hand, looking both moved and pleased.

"I want to read you something, boys," he said; and as they stoodround him he read this:

"DEAR BROTHER FRITZ, I hear that you do not mean to bringyour flock today, thinking that I may not like it. Please do. Thesight of his friends will help Demi through the hard hour, and Iwant the boys to hear what father says of my John. It will do themgood, I know. If they would sing one of the sweet old hymns youhave taught them so well, I should like it better than any othermusic, and feel that it was beautifully suited to the occasion.Please ask them, with my love.

MEG."

"Will you go?" and Mr. Bhaer looked at the lads, who were greatlytouched by Mrs. Brooke's kind words and wishes.

"Yes," they answered, like one boy; and an hour later they wentaway with Franz to bear their part in John Brooke's simple funeral.

The little house looked as quiet, sunny, and home-like as whenMeg entered it as a bride, ten years ago, only then it was earlysummer, and rose blossomed everywhere; now it was earlyautumn, and dead leaves rustled softly down, leaving the branchesbare. The bride was a widow now; but the same beautiful serenityshone in her face, and the sweet resignation of a truly pious soulmade her presence a consolation to those who came to comforther.

"O Meg! how can you bear it so?" whispered Jo, as she met themat the door with a smile of welcome, and no change in her gentlemanner, except more gentleness.

"Dear Jo, the love that has blest me for ten happy years supportsme still. It could not die, and John is more my own than ever,"whispered Meg; and in her eyes the tender trust was so beautifuland bright, that Jo believed her, and thanked God for theimmortality of love like hers.

They were all there father and mother, Uncle Teddy, and AuntAmy, old Mr. Laurence, white-haired and feeble now, Mr. andMrs. Bhaer, with their flock, and many friends, come to do honorto the dead. One would have said that modest John Brooke, in hisbusy, quiet, humble life, had had little time to make friends; butnow they seemed to start up everywhere, old and young, rich andpoor, high and low; for all unconsciously his influence had madeitself widely felt, his virtues were remembered, and his hiddencharities rose up to bless him. The group about his coffin was a farmore eloquent eulogy than any Mr. March could utter. There werethe rich men whom he had served faithfully for years; the poor oldwomen whom he cherished with his little store, in memory of hismother; the wife to whom he had given such happiness that deathcould not mar it utterly; the brothers and sisters in whose hearts hehad made a place for ever; the little son and daughter, who alreadyfelt the loss of his strong arm and tender voice; the young children,sobbing for their kindest playmate, and the tall lads, watching withsoftened faces a scene which they never could forget. A verysimple service, and very short; for the fatherly voice that hadfaltered in the marriage-sacrament now failed entirely as Mr.March endeavored to pay his tribute of reverence and love to theson whom he most honored. Nothing but the soft coo of BabyJosy's voice up-stairs broke the long hush that followed the lastAmen, till, at a sign from Mr. Bhaer, the well-trained boyishvoices broke out in a hymn, so full of lofty cheer, that one by oneall joined in it, singing with full hearts, and finding their troubledspirits lifted into peace on the wings of that brave, sweet psalm.

As Meg listened, she felt that she had done well; for not only didthe moment comfort her with the assurance that John's last lullabywas sung by the young voices he loved so well, but in the faces ofthe boys she saw that they had caught a glimpse of the beauty ofvirtue in its most impressive form, and that the memory of thegood man lying dead before them would live long and helpfully intheir remembrance. Daisy's head lay in her lap, and Demi held herhand, looking often at her, with eyes so like his father's, and a littlegesture that seemed to say, "Don't be troubled, mother; I am here;"and all about her were friends to lean upon and love; so patient,pious Meg put by her heavy grief, feeling that her best help wouldbe to live for others, as her John had done.

That evening, as the Plumfield boys sat on the steps, as usual, inthe mild September moonlight, they naturally fell to talking of theevent of the day.

Emil began by breaking out, in his impetuous way, "Uncle Fritz isthe wisest, and Uncle Laurie the jolliest, but Uncle John was thebest; and I'd rather be like him than any man I ever saw."

"So would I. Did you hear what those gentlemen said to Grandpato-day? I would like to have that said of me when I was dead;" andFranz felt with regret that he had not appreciated Uncle Johnenough.

"What did they say?" asked Jack, who had been much impressedby the scenes of the day.

"Why, one of the partners of Mr. Laurence, where Uncle John hasbeen ever so long, was saying that he was conscientious almost toa fault as a business man, and above reproach in all things.Another gentleman said no money could repay the fidelity andhonesty with which Uncle John had served him, and then Grandpatold them the best of all. Uncle John once had a place in the officeof a man who cheated, and when this man wanted uncle to helphim do it, uncle wouldn't, though he was offered a big salary. Theman was angry and said, 'You will never get on in business withsuch strict principles;' and uncle answered back, 'I never will try toget on without them,' and left the place for a much harder andpoorer one."

"Good!" cried several of the boys warmly, for they were in themood to understand and value the little story as never before.

"He wasn't rich, was he?" asked Jack.

"No."

"He never did any thing to make a stir in the world, did he?"

"No."

"He was only good?"

"That's all;" and Franz found himself wishing that Uncle John haddone something to boast of, for it was evident that Jack wasdisappointed by his replies.

"Only good. That is all and every thing," said Mr. Bhaer, who hadoverheard the last few words, and guessed what was going on theminds of the lads.

"Let me tell you a little about John Brooke, and you will see whymen honor him, and why he was satisfied to be good rather thanrich or famous. He simply did his duty in all things, and did it socheerfully, so faithfully, that it kept him patient and brave, andhappy through poverty and loneliness and years of hard work. Hewas a good son, and gave up his own plans to stay and live with hismother while she needed him. He was a good friend, and taughtLaurie much beside his Greek and Latin, did it unconsciously,perhaps, by showing him an example of an upright man. He was afaithful servant, and made himself so valuable to those whoemployed him that they will find it hard to fill his place. He was agood husband and father, so tender, wise, and thoughtful, thatLaurie and I learned much of him, and only knew how well heloved his family, when we discovered all he had done for them,unsuspected and unassisted."

Mr. Bhaer stopped a minute, and the boys sat like statues in themoonlight until he went on again, in a subdued, but earnest voice:"As he lay dying, I said to him, 'Have no care for Meg and the littleones; I will see that they never want.' Then he smiled and pressedmy hand, and answered, in his cheerful way, 'No need of that; Ihave cared for them.' And so he had, for when we looked amonghis papers, all was in order, not a debt remained; and safely putaway was enough to keep Meg comfortable and independent. Thenwe knew why he had lived so plainly, denied himself so manypleasures, except that of charity, and worked so hard that I fear heshortened his good life. He never asked help for himself, thoughoften for others, but bore his own burden and worked out his owntask bravely and quietly. No one can say a word of complaintagainst him, so just and generous and kind was he; and now, whenhe is gone, all find so much to love and praise and honor, that I amproud to have been his friend, and would rather leave my childrenthe legacy he leaves his than the largest fortune ever made. Yes!Simple, generous goodness is the best capital to found the businessof this life upon. It lasts when fame and money fail, and is the onlyriches we can take out of this world with us. Remember that, myboys; and if you want to earn respect and confidence and lovefollow in the footsteps of John Brooke."

When Demi returned to school, after some weeks at home, heseemed to have recovered from his loss with the blessed elasticityof childhood, and so he had in a measure; but he did not forget, forhis was a nature into which things sank deeply, to be ponderedover, and absorbed into the soil where the small virtues weregrowing fast. He played and studied, worked and sang, just asbefore, and few suspected any change; but there was one and AuntJo saw it for she watched over the boy with her whole heart, tryingto fill John's place in her poor way. He seldom spoke of his loss,but Aunt Jo often heard a stifled sobbing in the little bed at night;and when she went to comfort him, all his cry was, "I want myfather! oh, I want my father!" for the tie between the two had beena very tender one, and the child's heart bled when it was broken.But time was kind to him, and slowly he came to feel that fatherwas not lost, only invisible for a while, and sure to be found again,well and strong and fond as ever, even though his little son shouldsee the purple asters blossom on his grave many, many timesbefore they met. To this belief Demi held fast, and in it found bothhelp and comfort, because it led him unconsciously through atender longing for the father whom he had seen to a childlike trustin the Father whom he had not seen. Both were in heaven, and heprayed to both, trying to be good for love of them.

The outward change corresponded to the inward, for in those fewweeks Demi seemed to have grown tall, and began to drop hischildish plays, not as if ashamed of them, as some boys do, but asif he had outgrown them, and wanted something manlier. He tookto the hated arithmetic, and held on so steadily that his uncle wascharmed, though he could not understand the whim, until Demisaid,

"I am going to be a bookkeeper when I grow up, like papa, and Imust know about figures and things, else I can't have nice, neatledgers like his."

At another time he came to his aunt with a very serious face, andsaid

"What can a small boy do to earn money?"

"Why do you ask, my deary?"

"My father told me to take care of mother and the little girls, and Iwant to, but I don't know how to begin."

"He did not mean now, Demi, but by and by, when you are large."

"But I wish to begin now, if I can, because I think I ought to makesome money to buy things for the family. I am ten, and other boysno bigger than I earn pennies sometimes."

"Well, then, suppose you rake up all the dead leaves and cover thestrawberry bed. I'll pay you a dollar for the job," said Aunt Jo.

"Isn't that a great deal? I could do it in one day. You must be fair,and no pay too much, because I want to truly earn it."

"My little John, I will be fair, and not pay a penny too much. Don'twork too hard; and when that is done I will have something elsefor you to do," said Mrs. Jo, much touched by his desire to help,and his sense of justice, so like his scrupulous father.

When the leaves were done, many barrowloads of chips werewheeled from the wood to the shed, and another dollar earned.Then Demi helped cover the schoolbooks, working in the eveningsunder Franz's direction, tugging patiently away at each book,letting no one help, and receiving his wages with such satisfactionthat the dingy bills became quite glorified in his sight.

"Now, I have a dollar for each of them, and I should like to takemy money to mother all myself, so she can see that I have mindedmy father."

So Demi made a duteous pilgrimage to his mother, who receivedhis little earnings as a treasure of great worth, and would have keptit untouched, if Demi had not begged her to buy some useful thingfor herself and the women-children, whom he felt were left to hiscare.

This made him very happy, and, though he often forgot hisresponsibilities for a time, the desire to help was still there,strengthening with his years. He always uttered the words "myfather" with an air of gentle pride, and often said, as if he claimeda title full of honor, "Don't call me Demi any more. I am JohnBrooke now." So, strengthened by a purpose and a hope, the littlelad of ten bravely began the world, and entered into hisinheritance, the memory of a wise and tender father, the legacy ofan honest name.