Through that long dark day, little was said. After many paroxysms of intense pain, Mr. McPheeters said, Mr. Charless, you know something now about the sufferings of Jesus. Yes, he faintly replied, I have been thinking about that, while lying here.
Again, Mr. McPheeters repeated, Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me. In broken accents he replied, Nevertheless not my will, but Thine be done.
Several times, looking full in my face, said he, I love you.
Once, with some difficulty, as if to leave his blessing, he placed his hand upon the head of your poor mother, and said, My precious daughter.
Again and again he uttered, My poor wife. He well knew how desolate his poor wife would be in this bleak world without him.
Towards the close of his sufferings, said he, Will my heart strings never break? Not my will but thine be done.
When he was almost gone, he whispered to me, I-love—you.
His last words were, I am satisfied.
PEACEFULLY HE LIVED-PEACEFULLY HE DIED!
And now, my dear children, I have but little more to say. It has been a hard struggle for me to write much that I have written; for it seemed like tearing open my heart. But the ardent desire that the virtues of my husband should not die out as his name has done, and the fear that, as one by one of those who knew and loved him, should be laid in the grave, and the bare fact that he was murdered only remain, a blush might tinge your cheeks, at the mention of his name, lest the ancestor, who thus fell, might by his evil deeds have provoked his untimely end. I have often felt, too, while penning these letters, it is useless; my grandchildren will perhaps never even take the pains to read them, and if read they may not be impressed by them or stimulated to a single effort, to imitate the being I so much love and admire, and whose blood still flows in their own veins.