The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an elbow on a knee and laid his face in his hand. Presently Richling moved, and he raised a look of sad inquiry. "Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?" "Why, Richling?" "Well--this has been--my--battle-ground. I'd like to be buried on the field,--like the other soldiers. Not that I've been a good one; but--I want to lie where you can point to me as you tell my story. If it could be so, I should like to lie in sight--of that old prison." The Doctor brushed his eyes with his handkerchief and wiped his brow. "Doctor," said the invalid again, "will you read me just four verses in the Bible?" "Why, yes, my boy, as many as you wish to hear." "No, only four." His free hand moved for the book that lay on the bed, and presently the Doctor read:-- "'My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; "'Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. "'But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing. "'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'" "There," whispered the sick man, and rested with a peaceful look in all his face. "It--doesn't mean wisdom in general, Doctor,--such as Solomon asked for." "Doesn't it?" said the other, meekly. "No. It means the wisdom necessary to let--patience--have her perf-- I was a long time--getting any where near that. "Doctor--do you remember how fond--Mary was of singing--all kinds of--little old songs?" "Of course I do, my dear boy." "Did you ever sing--Doctor?" "O my dear fellow! I never did really sing, and I haven't uttered a note since--for twenty years." "Can't you sing--ever so softly--just a verse--of--'I'm a Pilgrim'?" "I--I--it's impossible, Richling, old fellow. I don't know either the words or the tune. I never sing." He smiled at himself through his tears. "Well, all right," whispered Richling. He lay with closed eyes for a moment, and then, as he opened them, breathed faintly through his parted lips the words, spoken, not sung, while his hand feebly beat the imagined cadence:-- "'The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; The corn-tops are ripe, and the meadows are in bloom, And the birds make music all the day.'" The Doctor hid his face in his hands, and all was still. By and by there came a whisper again. The Doctor raised his head. "Doctor, there's one thing"-- "Yes, I know there is, Richling." "Doctor,--I've been a poor stick of a husband." "I never knew a good one, Richling." "Doctor, you'll be a friend to Mary?" The Doctor nodded; his eyes were full. The sick man drew from his breast a small ambrotype, pressed it to his lips, and poised it in his trembling fingers. It was the likeness of the little Alice. He turned his eyes to his friend.