I pressed forward and bent above him, striving with what I felt to be a purely righteous motive, to attract his glance from hers, which was slowly withering him away as if it were a basilisk’s.
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“Only my old prayer-book,” he faltered. “I felt as if I should like Mr. Barrows to have it.”
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“Read it,” he murmured; “read it carefully.” And a tone of relief was in his voice that seemed to alarm her greatly; for she half rose to her feet and made a gesture to some one I did not see, after which she bent again towards the dying man and whispered in his ear.
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“I have but a few minutes,” murmured the sick man. “Will you refuse to make them comfortable, Margaret?”
“No, no,” she answered hastily, guided as I could not but see by an almost imperceptible movement of her son’s hand; and rising with a great show of compliance, she proceeded to the other end of the room. I at once took her place by the side of his pillow.
“Is there no word of comfort I can give you?” said I, anxious for the soul thus tortured by earthly anxieties on the very brink of the grave.
But his mind, filled with one thought, refused to entertain any other.
“Pray God that my strength hold out,” he whispered. “I have an act of reparation to make.” Then, as his son made a move as if to advance, he ca
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