"I have been thinking about it—I am not good for much, now—Mary—I never was. It will do some good if I die—just because I shall be out of the way. It will be the only good thing I ever did for you."
"Oh Walter," cried his wife in genuine distress, "don't—don't! Think—you must not die so—think of—of the other world, Walter—you must not die so!"
Goddard smiled faintly—scornfully, his wife thought.
"I daresay I shall not die till to-morrow, or next day—but I will not live," he said with sudden energy. "Do you understand me, I will not live! Bah!" he cried, falling back upon his pillow, "the grapes are sour—I can't live if I would. Oh yes, I know all about that—my sins. Well, I am sorry for them. I am sorry, Mary. But it is very little good—people always laugh at—deathbed repentance—"
He stopped and his thoughts seemed wandering. Mary Goddard gave him something to drink and tried to calm him. But he moved restlessly, though feebly.
"Softly, softly," he murmured again. "He is coming—close to me. Get ready—now—no not yet, yes—now. Ugh!" yelled Goddard, suddenly springing up, his eyes starting from his head. "Ugh! the dog—oh!"
"Hush, Walter," cried his wife, pushing him back. "Hush—no one will hurt you."
"What—is that you, Mary?" asked the sick man, trembling violently. Then he laughed harshly. "I was off again. Pshaw! I did not really mean to hurt him—he need not have set that beast at me. He did not catch me though—Mary, I am going to die—will you pray for me? You are a good woman—somebody will hear your prayers, I daresay. Do, Mary—I shall feel better somehow, though I daresay it is very foolish of me."
"No, Walter—not foolish, not foolish. Would you like me to call Mr.
Ambrose? he is a clergyman—he is in the house."
"No, no. You Mary, you—nobody will hear anybody else's prayers—for me—for poor me—"