Again the emphatic “yes,” while the sweat ran like rain down his face. “Then, Judge Forrest,” and Rossie put on her wisest, oldest air, “you may be certain I’ll do it, for I promise you solemnly that if anything comes to light which you left undone, and which I can do, I’ll do it, sure.” The eyes fairly danced now, and there was no mistaking the joy shining in them, while the lips moved as if in blessing upon the girl, who took the helpless hand and found there was a slight pressure of the limp, lifeless fingers which clung to hers. “Is that all? have you made me understand?” she asked, and he answered yes, and this time his eyes did not come back to her face, but closed wearily, and in a few moments he was sleeping quietly, as he had not done before since his illness. The sleep did him good, and he was far less restless after he awoke, and there was a more natural look in his face, but nothing could prolong his life, which hung upon a thread, and might go out at any time. There was no more following Rossie with his eyes, though he wanted her with him constantly, and seemed happier when she was sitting by him and ministering to his comfort. Sometimes he seemed to be in a deep reverie, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, and the great sweat-drops standing thickly on his face from the intensity of his thought. Of what was he thinking as he lay there so helpless? of the wasted years which he could not now reclaim? of sins committed and unforgiven in the days which lay behind him? of the wife who had died in that room and on that very bed? of the son to whom he had been so harsh and unforgiving, and who was not there now to cheer the dreary sick room? And did the unknown future loom up darkly before him and fill his soul with horror and dread of the world so near to him that he could almost see the boundary line which divides it from us? Once, when Rossie said to him, “Shall I read you something from the Bible?” he answered her with the affirmative sign, and taking her own little Bible, which her mother once used, she opened it at the first chapter of Isaiah, and her eyes chancing to fall upon the 18th verse, she commenced reading in a clear, sweet voice, which seemed to linger over the words, “Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” There were spasms of pain distorting the pinched features on the pillow, as the judge listened to those blessed words of promise and hope for even the worst of sinners. Scarlet sins and crimson sins all to be forgiven, and what were his but these? “I do believe he’s concerned in his mind,” Rossie thought, as she looked at him; and bending close to him she whispered, amid her own tears, “Shall I say the Lord’s Prayer now?”