With a burst of uncontrollable anguish the mother and sisters fell upon their knees at the bedside.
"How—long—doctor?" faltered the sick man.
"You will hardly see the rising of another sun."
The low, gently-spoken words pierced more than one heart as with a dagger's point.
"Was—this—wound—mortal in the—first place?" asked Wilkins.
"I think not if it had had prompt and proper attention. But that is a question of little importance now: you are beyond human skill. Is there anything in which I can assist you?"
"Yes—yes—pray for—my guilty soul."
It was no new thing for Dr. Barton to do: an earnest Christian, he ministered to the souls as well as the bodies of his patients. He knelt and offered up a fervent prayer for the dying one, that repentance and remission of sins might be given him, that he might have a saving faith in the Lord Jesus, and trusting only in His imputed righteousness, be granted an abundant entrance into His kingdom and glory.
"Thanks—doctor," gasped Wilkins, "I—I've been a bad man; a—very bad, wicked—man; can there be any hope for—me?"
"'Whosoever will let him take the water of life freely.' 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'"