The poor woman could only rock herself in the chair, and sob, “Yes, ’tis. An’, he’s been a good husband to me. I’ve allus hed the bes’ uv everything! Oh, Lordy, ’pears ’s though I cyan’t bear it, nohow!”
Louise put her hand gently on the thin shoulder, saying, “I will see that she never wants anything we can give, Demming; and we will try to comfort her.”
The cracker looked wistfully from her fresh, young face to the worn face below. “She wuz ’s peart an’ purty ’s you, miss, w’en I fust struck up with ’er,” said he, slowly. “Our little gal wuz her very image. Alwynda,” in a singularly soft, almost diffident tone, “don’ take on so; mabbe I’m gwine fer ter see ’er again. ’Twon’t do no harm ter think so, onyhow,” he added, with a glance at Talboys, as though sure there of comprehension.
Then the Bishop spoke, solemnly, though with sympathy, urging the dying man, whose worldly affairs were settled, to repent of his sins and prepare for eternity. “Shall I pray for you, Demming?” he said, in conclusion.
“Jes’ as you please, Bishop,” answered Demming, and he tried to wave his hand. “I ain’t noways partickler. I reckon God a’mighty knows I’d be th’ same ole Demming ef I could get up, an’ I don’ mean ter make no purtenses. But mabbe it’ll cheer up th’ ole ’ooman a bit. So you begin, an’ I’ll bring in an Amen whenever it’s wanted!”
So speaking, Demming closed his eyes wearily, and the Bishop knelt by the bedside. Talboys and Louise left them, thus. After a while, the wife stretched forth her toil-worn hand and took her husband’s. She thought she was aware of a weak pressure. But when the prayer ended there came no Amen. Demming was gone where prayer may only faintly follow; nor could the Bishop ever decide how far his vagabond had joined in his petitions. Such doubts, however, did not prevent his cherishing an assured hope that the man who died for him was safe, forever. The Bishop’s theology, like that of most of us, yielded, sometimes, to the demands of the occasion.