One of them had been beautifully decorated with white lace and flowers.

There in the midst stood the berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child.
My father took me up to it--at first I saw only the flowers, pale snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet waxen face with closed eyes and lips.
Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no horrors for me.
"May I kiss him, papa ?" I asked.

Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed with us for a few hours at least?
I should like to have seen his pretty eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was, they were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death.
"Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived ?" I asked.
"Your mother's favorite name--Gerald," he replied.

"Ah, Laura, had he lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child--who knows what manner of man this child might have been or what he might have done ?" "Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life ?" I asked.
"Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father.
I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again.

"Good-by, my little brother," I said.