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

“In the glad morning of my day,
My life to give, my vows to pay,
With no reserve and no delay,
With all my heart I come.”

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 grandmother clasped one hand in hers and with her other gently brushed back the fair hair from his brow. At last, after a long silence, he said, “Say ‘Just as I am’ for me.” Again they said it. Then the Rector read the Prayers for the Dying. As the dawn was breaking, the sun gilding spires and housetops, and the sparrows twittering their morning hymn of praise on the eaves, with the words, “Lord of my life, I come,” upon his lips, little Irish Ned gave a gentle sigh, and yielded up his spirit to the God who gave it.

He was dead. The world without was bathed in sunshine, but all was dark to her he loved, now left alone. His little bird was singing merrily in its cage, “but the strong heart of its child master was mute and motionless forever.” For the last time earth had felt the springing tread, and listened to the merry whistle of little Irish Ned.

They buried him in the cemetery at Brookside, far removed from the city’s noise in which he so loved to mingle, far from the haunts and the turmoils and the troubles of men. As the Rector with choking voice uttered the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” many a heart heaved with sorrow, many an eye filled with tears, many a breast throbbed with sobbing; but as he went on to proclaim in triumphant tones, “In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to Eternal Life through our Lord Jesus Christ,” an awed silence fell upon that sorrow-stricken assembly and a new hope was begotten in their hearts.

“Father, in Thy gracious keeping
Leave we now Thy servant sleeping.”