“What’s the matter?” he said hoarsely.
“Ike, husband,” whispered the suffering woman.
“Oh, yes; I remember now,” he said, with a piteous groan. “I always knew it would come.”
“Ike, dear, can I do anything?” said his wife tenderly.
“Yes.”
“Tell me what, dear?”
“I’ll tell you soon,” groaned the man. “I knew it would come; I always felt it. Ah, my girl, my girl, I’ve preached to them often, and talked about the end of a good Christian man, but it’s very, very hard to die.”
“Die! oh, Isaac, don’t say that.”
“Yes; and to die through him—through that tyrant, and all to make him rich.”
“No, no; you’ll get better, dear, as Roberts did, and Jackson, who were worse than you.”