"Her confession God has already received."
"Well, and I'm not a lawyer to draw up her will."
"No, sir; but you are recently appointed one of the justices of the peace for Alleghany."
"Yes. Well, what of that? That does not comprise the duty of getting up out of my warm bed and going through a snow-storm to see an old woman expire."
"I regret to inconvenience you, sir; but in this instance your duty demands your attendance at the bedside of this dying woman——"
"I tell you I can't go, and I won't! Anything in reason I'll do. Anything I can send she shall have. Here, Wool, look in my breeches pocket and take out my purse and hand it. And then go and wake up Mrs. Condiment, and ask her to fill a large basket full of everything a poor old dying woman might want, and you shall carry it."
"Spare your pains, sir. The poor woman is already past all earthly, selfish wants. She only asks your presence at her dying bed."
"But I can't go! I! The idea of turning out of my warm bed and exposing myself to a snow-storm this time of night!"
"Excuse me for insisting, sir; but this is an official duty," said the parson mildly but firmly.
"I'll—I'll throw up my commission to-morrow," growled the old man.