Flitting round the bed, like a guardian spirit, was Miss Bradly, whilst her tearful eye never wandered for an instant from that face now growing rigid with the kiss of death! Miss Jane stood at the head of the bed wiping the cold damps from his brow, and Miss Tildy was striving to impart some of her animal warmth to his icy feet. Mr. Peterkin sat with one of those thin hands grasped within his own, as if disputing and defying the advance of that enemy whom no man is strong enough to baffle.
Slowly the invalid turned upon his couch, and, looking out upon the setting sun, he heaved a deep sigh.
"Father," he said, as he again turned his face toward Mr. Peterkin, who still clasped his hand, "do you not know from my failing pulse, that my life is almost spent?"
"Oh, my boy, it is too, too hard to give you up."
"Yet you must nerve yourself for it.
"I have no nerve to meet this trouble."
"Go to God, He will give you ease."
"I want Him to give me you."
"Me He lent you for a little while. Now He demands me at your hands, and His requisition you must obey."
"Oh, I won't give up; maybe you'll yet be spared to me."