But one after another the young voices broke and were hushed, until Rob was singing alone, unconscious of the people about him, only seeing the dark outline in the darkened room; forgetful of his hearers, only remembering the good friend and companion in the happy days they had passed together. Never had his voice been sweeter or clearer, until the close of the second verse. Then it was impossible for him to go on. It all seemed like some horrible nightmare, from which he must wake, to find Sam alive and well. He tried to go on with the hymn, but his voice failed utterly. For a moment there was a hush of expectation, a hush that seemed endless to the boy; and then, from behind him, in a clear, mellow tenor, low and gentle, yet so distinct that not a syllable was lost, came the words of the last verse,—
"So long Thy power has led me, surely still
'Twill lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn, those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since—and lost awhile."
It was all over, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," but as the five lads, the half-dozen now no longer, sat on the Carters' piazza in the gathering twilight, sorrowfully talking over the events of the last three days, they felt that no one of them had made a braver fight to win the victor's crown. And as the stars came out one by one, and smiled down on the boys as they sat there, smiled as they had so often done before, only more sadly to-night, they felt that Sam, too, was looking down upon them from above, and each one resolved, in his boyish heart, to live from day to day, so that at last he should be worthy to meet Sam once more in the happy future world.
CHAPTER XVI.
A LITERARY EVENING.
THE I.I. CLUB
Requests you to be present on Saturday evening, October 29th, at its semi-annual meeting. Essays will be read, to show the work of the club.
These invitations were scattered broadcast among fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, and Saturday evening was eagerly awaited by the young clubbists.
It was now more than four weeks since Sam had left the boys, and although they missed him sadly and mourned for him most sincerely, there seemed to Bess no reason that the five lads should give up their long-talked-of festival. She was sure that Sam, unselfish as he had always shown himself, would not wish it otherwise. His memory had become a tender centre for all their highest, noblest thoughts and talks, and the five rarely came together without speaking of him, sometimes laughing quietly at the funny adventures they had had with him, but more often dwelling with a boyish pride on the courage and manliness that showed in his every act. It was always, "Sam is," "Sam does;" never the dreadful "was" and "did," that past tense which seems to separate our friends from us by an impassable barrier. Bess encouraged this feeling of nearness, for she loved to have the boys feel that their friend had only left them as if for a little journey, and they would soon meet him again. It was the first time they had learned the real meaning of death, and it had been a terrible blow to them all, but the tender, loving memory, and the thought that their friend was always watching over them, had a sweet, helpful influence on their young lives. No one had been asked to fill his place in the club, but instead, when the lads were discussing the details of their open meeting, Sam's tastes and wishes were followed as closely as if he had been still among them.
Saturday evening found the Carters' large rooms well filled, and at exactly half-past seven Bess, followed by the five boys, took her place on a small raised platform at the end of the room. Each one wore a white carnation in his buttonhole, from which hung the badge of membership, a silver interrogation point, Fred's gift. Four of them were armed with impressive rolls of manuscript, while Fred carried a large, loose bunch of roses that, with Bessie's help, he placed before a picture of Sam that stood on a small table in their midst.