“Yes, it is. I shall soon be able to read the Bible or Prayer-book to you. I have them both here.”
“The pain is too severe, and becomes worse every minute. I shall not be able to listen to you now; but I shall have some moments of quiet before I die; and then—”
Jackson groaned heavily, and ceased speaking.
For many hours he appeared to suffer much agony, which he vented in low groans; the perspiration hung on his forehead in large beads, and his breathing became laborious. The sun rose and had nearly set again before Jackson spoke; at last he asked for some drink.
“It is over now,” said he, faintly. “The pain is subsiding, and death is near at hand. You may read to me now; but, first, while I think of it, let me tell you where you will find your father’s property.”
“I know,” replied I; “in your bed-place under the board. I saw you remove it when you did not see me.”
“True. I have no more to say; it will all be over soon. Read the burial service over me after I am dead; and now, while still above, read me what you think I shall like best; for I cannot collect myself sufficiently to tell you what is most proper. Indeed I hardly know. But I can pray at times. Read on.”
I did so, and came upon the parable of the prodigal son.
“That suits me,” said Jackson. “Now let me pray. Pray for me, Frank.”
“I don’t know how,” replied I; “you never taught me.”