"Do you know me, Roland?" asked the visitor; but no reply was made, nor sign of any kind given.
"Bless you, no, mum; he doesn't know me as allus feeds him, and hasn't for months. He jest lays there and rolls his eyes about, and cries sometimes like a babby," said the nurse who stood by. "You see, mum," she continued, "it's more often like this with them as drinks, when they can't get at their drops, they jest get lower and lower, and you can't do nothing for them. My old man went off like this one, and he'd been a frightful drinker."
"How do you know when he's worse?" asked Mrs. West, for it was she.
"He won't swaller his food, mum, and you can't get no heat into him; jest feel his hands." Mrs. West took the icy hand into her own, and started at its chill dampness.
"This is no ordinary coldness," she said, with a nurse's quick perception; for many years had passed since, obeying her husband's mandate, she had found occupation for herself, and food for her children, at the bedside of the sick and dying.
"He is dying," she said, touching the clammy forehead; "Oh, Roland, say one word to your wife before you go." As if in answer to her appeal there flashed a gleam of intelligence from the glazing eyes, and with a tremendous effort one word broke from the blue lips with terrible distinctness, and rang through the ward. It was the word "Forgive." Then the eyes grew fixed, and the face slowly settled down into the stillness of death. He who was once the pride of a fond father, and the joy of a doting mother, had made his mark and gone from a workhouse bed to answer before his Creator and Judge for the deeds done in the body.
