“Now—I lay me down to sleep.”
“That’s—good—mother said that.”
“Hallowed be Thy name—pray—the Lord his soul to keep.”
“That’s good—pard. It’s all glory—comin’ over—the Range—mother’s face—her—face”—
“Thine is the glory, we ask—for Jesus’ sake—Amen.”
“Pard”—
“What, Rough? I’m all unstrung. I”—
“Fare”—
“Rough! Yer worse! What, dead?”
Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, rough and sincere, like the heart that had ceased to throb; a prayer and a few real tears, even in that lone cabin in the cañon; truer than many a death scene knows, although a nation does honor to the dying; a prayer that pleased Him better than many a prayer of the schools and creeds. A rough but gentle hand closed the eyes. The first rays of the morning sun broke through a crevice in the little cabin, and hung like his mother’s smile over the couch of the sleeping boy. Only one mourner watched with Rough as he waited for the new name which will be given to us all, when that light comes to the world from over the Range.