Young master had returned, but not at all benefited by his trip. A deep carnation was burnt into his shrivelled cheek, and he walked with a feeble, tottering step. The least physical exertion would bring on a violent paroxysm of coughing. The unnatural glitter of his eye, with its purple surroundings, gave me great uneasiness; but he was the same gentle, kind-spoken young master that he had ever been. His glossy, golden hair had a dead, dry appearance; whilst his chest was fearfully sunken; yet his father refused to believe that all these marks were the heralds of the great enemy's approach. "The spring will cure you, my boy." "No, father, the spring is coming fast; but long before its flowers begin to scent the vernal gales, I shall have passed through the narrow gateway of the tomb." "No, it shall not be. All my money shall go to save you." "I am purchased, father, with a richer price than gold; the inestimable blood of the Lamb has long since paid my ransom; I go to my father in heaven." "Oh, my son! you want to go; you want to leave me. You do not love your father." "Yes, I do love you, father, very dearly; and I would that you were going with me to that lovely land." "I shill never go thar." "'Tis that fear that is killing me, father." "What could I, now, do to be saved?" "Believe in the Lord Jesus, and be baptized." "Is that all?" "Yes, that is all; but it embraces a good deal, dear father; a good deal more than most persons deserve. In order to a perfect belief in the Lord Jesus, you must act consistently with that belief. You must deal justly. Abundantly give to the poor, and, above all, you must love mercy, and do mercifully to all. Now I approach the great subject upon which I fear you will stumble. You must," and he pronounced the words very slowly, "liberate your slaves." There was a fair gleam from his eyes when he said this. Mr. Peterkin turned uneasily in his chair. He did not wish to encourage a conversation upon this subject. One evening, when it had been raining for two or three days, and the damp condition of the atmosphere had greatly increased young master's complaint, he called me to his bedside. "Ann," he said, in that deep, sepulchral tone, "I wish to ask you a question, and I urge you not to deceive me. Remember I am dying, and it will be a great crime to tell me a falsehood." I assured him that I would answer him with a faithful regard to truth. "Then tell me what occasioned Amy's death? Did she come to it by violence?" I shall never forget the deep, penetrating glance that he fixed upon me. It was an inquiry that went to my soul. I could not have answered him falsely. Calmly, quietly, and without exaggeration, I told him all the circumstances of her death. "Murder!" he exclaimed, "murder, foul and most unnatural!" I saw him wipe the tears from his hollow eyes, and that sunken chest heaved with vivid emotion. Mr. Peterkin came in, and was much surprised to find young master so excited.