"Upstairs," answered Maggie, who had opened the door for them. "He can't get out of bed any more."
And she ran to ask if they could go up.
"Well, Bluff," said the Squire kindly, as he approached the bedside; "I'm sorry to see you like this."
"They tell me it's my own fault, sir," said the sufferer meekly.
Somehow, he had come to swear less and less since Maggie had been there. "My own fault!" he repeated, with a sigh.
"It's a hard thing to tell a man, when he's on his death-bed,"' said the Squire gently.
"But I suppose it's true," rejoined Farmer Bluff.
"And it's better that a man should know it's true," the Squire added solemnly; "for then he has a chance of taking comfort from the assurance that 'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Though our sins and folly may have destroyed our body, the moment that we cast them from us by our faith in Him whom God sent to be our Saviour, they lose power to harm our soul; and the only condition of forgiveness and acceptance is we cease to cherish our sins, and, trusting in Jesus, seek to be restored."
Farmer Bluff was silent. Perhaps his conscience told him it was less the sin that he was sorry for than the consequences it had brought.
"You weren't far wrong, you see, sir, when you turned me out," said he presently. "It was a hard blow, but I deserved it. I had no right to murmur; for I wasn't equal to my work."