"Doc' Hissong is very low and has been calling for you ever since last night," said Budlong.
They went up the hill to the office. Old Brad met them at the door, "Praise Gawd, you've come, Shawn—he gwine mi'ty fas'—he nearin' de Valley uv de Shadder." Shawn went in, and as he saw the old doctor's white head on the pillow, the tears gushed from his eyes. He went to the bedside and took the old physician's hand.
"Doctor, it's Shawn; I've come."
A glad beam came into the fast-closing eyes, and the feeble voice struggled into a fitful tone, "Shawn, my boy, God has forgiven me—I don't know how it may be—I've tried to think it out, but somehow I feel that in the long journey I must now take alone, that God will let the light burn for me—I've remembered you, Shawn."
The head sank back upon the pillow. Old Brad was sobbing in the corner. From the hill came the weird tones of a whip-poor-will, and from the far-away bend of the river, the echoes of a steamer's wheel. The moon shot a beam of light through the window and the rays seemed to rest tenderly upon the calm and gentle face. Doctor Hissong's spirit had flown.
"Clear the room," said Budlong, "I want to speak in private with Shawn."
Taking a paper from his pocket he said, "Shawn, Doctor Hissong told me to read you this, his will. I am here to do it. I drew it up."
The old lawyer stood by the mantlepiece, and by the flickering lamplight read:
"In the name of God, Amen. Realizing the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, I, Radford J. Hissong, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby publish this to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking all former wills and codicils.
1st—I give to the old negro Brad Jackson the sum of $500.00 and intrust him to the care of the young man known as Shawn Collins.