“See him? Yes. I want to do one good deed before I die. _I would kill him_—murder my only child, and send him to Heaven, where rumsellers never go—where women, with witching eyes and luring words, never tempt men to drink. Bring him in: why do you loiter?” turning to Anna. “Is it that you would have him live to be the wreck I am—to curse the mother who bore him and the day he was born! Bring him quick, I tell you, for time hastens, and in the distance I hear the clank of the hag’s footsteps.” “Oh, Herbert, Herbert, my poor husband,” was all Anna could say, as she wound her arms around his neck and laid her colorless cheek against his fevered brow. In a moment he grew calm, and drawing her to his bosom, his tears fell like rain upon her face, while he called her his “wounded dove,” and asked her forgiveness for all he had made her suffer. “You will live with mother when I am gone,” he said. “You and Jamie. God forbid that I should harm our beautiful boy; but I would see him once more. Don’t be afraid,” he added, as he saw her hesitate. “I will not hurt him.” Disengaging herself from her husband’s embrace, Anna glided from the room, to which she soon returned, leading little Jamie, now two years of age. Very lovingly the dying man looked upon his son, and then laying his shaking hand upon the golden curls, he said, “God keep you, my boy, from being what I am; and if a drunkard’s blessing can be of any avail, you have mine, my precious, precious child.” “Would you like to kiss him?” asked Aunt Charlotte; to which he replied, “No, no; I am too polluted to touch aught so pure. But take him away,” he continued, growing excited. “Take him away, for the demon on my pillow is again whispering of murder.” Hastily the wondering child was taken from the room, and then Herbert fell into a disturbed slumber, in which he seemed to be holding converse with beings of another world, inquiring of them if they had enough to drink, and chiding the rich man for asking _water_, when he might as well call for _brandy_! About noon he awoke and inquired for me. With some trepidation I approached him, for his eyes were those of a madman; but he meditated no harm, and only asked if I supposed that the Prayer Book laid upon the outside of his pillow, where the hag could see it, would have the effect of keeping her away. “Perhaps so,” I said, at the same time placing it so that his heavy brown hair fell partially on it. “Now, will some one pray—mother, you?” and his eyes turned imploringly towards the half crazed woman, who essayed to pray for the departing spirit. “That’ll do—that’ll do,” he exclaimed, interrupting her. “It’s of no use spending your breath for me. It’s too late—too late—so the hag says, and she’s coming again, with myriads on myriads of fiends; but they can’t hurt me as long as this is here,” and his hand clutched convulsively for the book which lay beside him.