I replied in the affirmative, and he continued—“Do you know I’d give the world, were it mine, if I could hear her pray for me once more. It would cool my scorching brain, and if I dare pray for myself, I know I should be healed; but I cannot, for the moment I attempt it, there are legions of imps who flit and grin before my face, while one, larger and more unseemly than the rest, shouts in my ears, ‘LOST, LOST, TO ALL ETERNITY!’ there—look, don’t you hear it?” and, shivering with fright, he covered his head with the bed-clothes. But I heard nothing save the heaving swell of the waves, and the sullen roar of the lake, which came in through the open window, seeming to his disordered imagination an accusing spirit from another world. At last looking up timidly and speaking low, as if fearful of being overheard, he said, “Is there a Prayer Book in the house?” I answered in the affirmative. Raising himself upon his elbow, and glancing fearfully around, he continued, “Bring it quick, while they are away, and put it under my pillow. Who knows but it may operate like a spell!” I complied with his request, and brought the book, which he placed under his head, saying, “There—now I can pray, and God won’t let them mock me, will he, think?” I could only weep as he folded his long white hands one over the other, and said reverently the prayer taught him years and years before, commencing with— “Now I lay me down to sleep,” etc. As if the words, indeed, had a soothing power, he almost instantly fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke refreshed, and better than he had been for several days. They said he could not live; and though it was a painful task, Anna wrote to his mother apprising her of his danger, and bidding her hasten, if she would see him again. During the few remaining weeks of his life he was subject to strange fancies. For a time the Prayer Book beneath his pillow had the effect of keeping him comparatively quiet; but, anon, it lost its power, and one day he awoke with a fearful shriek. The imps, as he called them, had again returned, and were mockingly taunting him with the victory he vainly imagined he had obtained. “Keep off, ye devils!” he shouted, drawing the volume from beneath his pillow, and holding it to view. “Keep off; for, see, this book is full of prayers, which my mother has said. _My mother!_ Do you hear? Ha! They laugh at the idea, and well they may. Had she learned to pray sooner, I might not have been the vile thing that I am. But _she_ taught me to _drink_. _She_ set the example; so go to _her_ with those horrid faces, besmeared with the smoke of the pit.”