"There—there it is. I have tried and tried, but when she strikes me, or brings those people here, or comes home with that horrible bottle under her shawl, I cannot be respectful—I get angry and long to hide away when she comes up stairs."
"Hush, my child, hush; these are wicked words!"
"I know it, father; it seems to me as if no one ever was so wicked—try ever so much, I cannot be good. I thought when you came"—
"Well, my child."
"I thought that you would tell me how, and you talk of—. Don't, father, don't; I want you so much."
"It is God who takes me," said Fuller, gently; "He will teach you how to be good."
"Oh, but it takes so long; I have asked and asked so often."
Again that beautiful smile beamed over the dying man's face.
"He will hear you—He has heard you—I felt that you had need of me, and came; see how God has answered your want in this, my child!"
"But I can do nothing alone; when you are with me, I feel strong; but if you leave me, what can I do?"