"Geoffrey," said Harrison, soothingly, "you can never recover your health, or feel happy till you can accomplish this great moral victory over sin and self."
"I cannot do it!" I responded, turning from him, and burying my face in the bed-clothes while I hardened my heart against conviction. "No, not if I perish for refusing. I feel as if I were already with the condemned."
"No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. "Hatred and its concomitant passion, Revenge, are feelings worthy of the damned. I beseech you, Geoffrey, by the dying prayer of that blessed Saviour, whom you profess to believe, try to rise superior to these soul-debasing passions; and not only forgive, but learn to pity, the authors of your sufferings."
"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."
"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"
"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgive them?"
"Yes."
"Not under the same provocation?"
"I have done so under worse."
"God in Heaven!—how is that possible?"