“Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are.”
Tears, which did honor to his manly heart, fell from the young man’s eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.
“Oh! dear Uncle Tom! do wake—do speak once more! Look up! Here’s Mas’r George—your own little Mas’r George. Don’t you know me?”
“Mas’r George!” said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice. “Mas’r George!” He looked bewildered.
Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul, and the vacant eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.
“Bless the Lord! it is—it is—it’s all I wanted! They haven’t forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, oh! my soul!”
“You sha’n’t die! you mustn’t die, nor think of it. I’ve come to buy you, and take you home,” said George, with impetuous vehemence.
“Oh! Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me, and is going to take me home, and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck.”
“Oh! don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my heart to think what you’ve suffered—and living in this old shed here! Poor, poor fellow!”