"What!" said Mr. Peterkin to me, one day, "are you agoin to die, too, Ann? Any time you gits in the notion, jist let me know, and I'll give you rope enough to do it."
In this taunting way he frequently alluded to that fatal tragedy which should have bowed his head with shame and remorse.
Young master had returned, but not at all benefited by his trip. A deep carnation was burnt into his shrivelled cheek, and he walked with a feeble, tottering step. The least physical exertion would bring on a violent paroxysm of coughing. The unnatural glitter of his eye, with its purple surroundings, gave me great uneasiness; but he was the same gentle, kind-spoken young master that he had ever been. His glossy, golden hair had a dead, dry appearance; whilst his chest was fearfully sunken; yet his father refused to believe that all these marks were the heralds of the great enemy's approach.
"The spring will cure you, my boy."
"No, father, the spring is coming fast; but long before its flowers begin to scent the vernal gales, I shall have passed through the narrow gateway of the tomb."
"No, it shall not be. All my money shall go to save you."
"I am purchased, father, with a richer price than gold; the inestimable blood of the Lamb has long since paid my ransom; I go to my father in heaven."
"Oh, my son! you want to go; you want to leave me. You do not love your father."
"Yes, I do love you, father, very dearly; and I would that you were going with me to that lovely land."
"I shill never go thar."