“Thank you for that. My second request concerns our children. Promise me that you will not
take them from under your brother’s eye, and that you will strive to bring them up as he would have you; then I shall know that they will be spared such misery as this, that they will not need to be reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful example of their unworthy and guilty father.”
“I promise, I promise!” cried the weeping wife, burying her face in her husband’s bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again there was a sweet smile on her features as she said, “Dearest Orlando, all may yet be well, even should you be taken from us.”
“For you, yes; for me, I cannot say,” was his reply.
“Oh yes,” she cried earnestly; “I am sure that dear Amos has put before you the way to the better land, open to us all through our loving Saviour; and I prayed last night—oh, so earnestly—that you might find that way.”
“Thank you for that,” he said mournfully; “it may be so; at any rate I have got thus far—I shall not cease to cry, so long as I have breath, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’” And these were the last words on the poor penitent’s lips.
For three days after this interview he lingered in much pain, but without a murmur. Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God and prayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark. Julia was constantly with him, and poured out her rekindled love in a thousand little tender services. At last the end came: there was neither joy nor peace, but there was not despair,—just one little ray of hope lighted the dark valley.
When the unostentatious funeral was over, Amos and his sister returned home cast down yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued but happy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon’s private sitting-room, consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter, and their aunt. When Amos had answered many questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law, Walter turned to his aunt and said, “Now, dear auntie, you have some examples of moral courage ready for us I am sure.—Amos, you are to be a good boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher, as I see you are inclined to do. I know why; but it does not matter. Julia and I want doing good to, if you don’t; so let us all attend.”
“Yes,” said Miss Huntingdon, “I know what you mean, and so of course does your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own praises, but he must not refuse to listen to the praises of others, even though their conduct may more or less resemble his own. I have some noble examples of moral courage to bring before you, for I have been thinking much on the matter since Amos and Julia left us. My heroes and heroines—for I have some of each sex—will now consist of those who have braved death from disease or pestilence in the path of duty. And first of all, I must go back to our old example of moral heroism—I mean, to one who has already furnished us with a lesson—John Howard. That remarkable man was not satisfied with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reforms in them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners. He wished to alleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures to a still greater extent; so he formed the plan of visiting the hospitals and lazarettos set apart for contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst other places he went to Smyrna and Constantinople when these cities were suffering from the plague. From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with a foul bill of health to Venice, where he became an inmate of a lazaretto. Here he was placed in a dirty room full of vermin, without table, chair, or bed. He employed a person to wash the room, but it was still dirty and offensive. Suffering here with headache and slow fever, he was removed to a lazaretto near the town, and had two rooms assigned him, both in as dirty a state as that he had left. His active mind devised a plan for making these rooms more comfortable for the next occupant, and though opposed by the indolence and prejudices of the people about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter of a bushel of lime and a brush, and, by rising very early, and bribing his attendant to help him, contrived to have the place completely purified. Now his object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease was not that he might gratify some crotchet, or get a name with the world, but that from personal experience of the unutterable miseries of such places as these lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest the needful improvements and remedies. This he had set before himself as his work; to this he believed that duty called him; and that was enough for him. Suffering, sickness, death, they were as nothing to him when weighed in the balance against high and holy duty.”