"Michael," I said, taking the long thin white hand that lay so listlessly on the coverlid, "I am sorry to see you so ill."
He looked at me attentively for a few minutes.--"Do not say sorry, Ma'am; rather say glad. I am glad to get away from this bad world--young as I am--I am so weary of it."
He sighed deeply, and tears filled his eyes.
"I heard that you wished some one to read to you."
"Yes, the Bible!" he cried, trying to raise himself in the bed, while his eager eyes were turned to me with an earnest, imploring expression.
"I have it here. Are you able to read it for yourself?"
"I can read--but my eyes are so dim. The shadows of death float between me and the world; I can no longer see objects distinctly. But oh, Madam, if my soul were light, I should not heed this blindness. But all is dark here," laying his hand on his breast,--"dark as the grave."
I opened the sacred book, but my own tears for a moment obscured the page. While I was revolving in my own mind what would be the best to read to him, the book was rudely wrenched from my hand by a tall, gaunt woman, who just then entered the room.
"Och! what do you mane by disturbing him in his dying moments wid yer thrash? It is not the likes o' you that shall throuble his sowl! The praste will come and administher consolation to him in his last exthremity."
Michael shook his head, and turned his face sorrowfully to the wall.