"Pray without ceasing; and in everything give thanks," said that faint gentle voice once more.
"But I have prayed till my heart seemed full of tears."
"They were sweet tears, Mary."
"No, no; my heart grew heavy with them; and—mother, how could I give thanks when she came home so—!"
"Hush, hush, Mary—it is your mother!"
"But I can't give thanks for that, when I remember how she let you suffer—how miserable everything was—how she left you to starve, day by day, spending all the money you had laid up in drink!"
"Oh, my child, my child!" cried the dying man, sweeping the tears from his eyes with one pale hand, and dropping it heavily on her shoulder.
She cowered beneath the pressure.
"It is wrong—I know it," she said, clasping her hands and dropping them heavily before her, as if weighed down by a sense of her utter unworthiness. "But oh, father, what shall I do! what shall I do!"
"Honor your mother!"