"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'" "It's because Jesus died instead of us, father," added Cherry, weeping. "Oh, father, why don't ye come to Him?" The man did not answer her. Wearied out with pain and emotion, he lay exhausted; nor would the nurse allow any more talking. "You can come again this evening," she said, looking into Cherry's woe-begone face. "He may live till then." With this they were forced to be satisfied, and Cherry turned away with a sad heart. Slowly they made their way home again, while Cherry's halting steps seemed to drag more wearily than they had done while hope beat in her bosom. Tear after tear coursed down her cheeks, and it was with difficulty that she could guide herself in the crowded thoroughfare. At last Jem, seeing this, took her hand again, and sought for words of comfort. "You mustn't doubt God, child," he said kindly; "we're all apt to think as He can't do nothin' without us. But 'tis oftentimes when we have done all as is in our power, and yet have failed, that He can work best. Me and Meg was readin' yesterday--why, it was only yesterday!" he exclaimed, stopping to interrupt himself,--"we was readin' afore I went to my work some such words as these: 'Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord.' And, Cherry, it seems to me as it ain't when we can do most, but when we'll let _Him_ do most, as He can work best." Cherry listened and took courage, and though she did not say a word, she thanked Jem from the bottom of her little heart. When they presented themselves at the hospital again that evening, and asked to be allowed to see Tom Seymour, the answer came like a knell to them both: "He died at three o'clock." "Dead?" asked Cherry; and no one knew the depths of that crippled orphan's heart at that moment. No one but God; but He knew, and pitied. Dead! and no messages of God's love, no assurances of forgiveness, no pardoning grace could reach him now. He had sunk into the grave, in spite of all her efforts, all her prayers, unsaved! A hand touched her arm. It was the nurse's who had stood by them that morning. "Come in here," she said, leading the way to a little comfortless room where people waited. It was empty now, and the nurse closed the door. She held out to Jem the piece of paper he had left with her that morning, containing his address in case of his being wanted. Under his name was written, in the doctor's hand, "I, Tom Seymour, leave my children to his care," and then there was a weak straggling cross, and the doctor's signature as witness. "When you were gone," explained the nurse, "he never spoke for an hour or so, and we didn't disturb him, because we knew he couldn't recover. You see the accident went hard with him, because he drank so. Well, after an hour or two he woke up, and he called as before, 'Dickie!'