Neither Tip nor his mother were
to be seen. One or two women were moving through the house, with quiet
steps, bringing in chairs and doing little thoughtful things in and
about that wonderfully orderly room.
On the table was that which told the whole story of this unusual
stillness and preparation. It was a pine coffin, very small and plain;
and in it, with folded hands and brown hair rolled smoothly back from his
baby forehead, little Johnny lay, asleep. Somebody, with a touch of
tenderness, had placed a just budding rose in the tiny white hand, and
baby looked very sweet and beautiful in his narrow bed. Poor little
Johnny! his had been a sad, neglected babyhood; many weary hours had he
spent in his cradle, receiving only cross looks from Kitty, and neglected
by the mother, who, though she loved Johnny, and even because she loved
him, must leave him to work for her daily bread. But it was all over now:
Johnny's cries would never disturb them again; Johnny's weary little body
rested quietly in its coffin; Johnny's precious self was gathered in the
Saviour's arms.
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