“Yes, them’s um. I remember, ’cause I used ter ondress the child. An’, now I think uv it, one uv her eyes was bluish, an’ t’ other grayish.” “What day was it you parted with the child?” “The same day she was sold.” “When was that?” “It must have been in May follerin’ the ’splosion. Lem me see. ’T was that day I got the pill-box. I’d been ter the doctor’s fur some physickin’ stuff. He give me a prescrip, an’ I went an’ got some pills in that air box, an’ then throwed the pills away an’ kept the box.” Vance glanced at the cover. The apothecary’s name and the number of the prescription were legible. Vance put the box in his pocket. “Can’t yer think uv su’thin’ else?” asked Quattles. “Only this,” replied Vance: “How shall I manage Hyde?” “Wall, ef the Kunnle sh’d hold up his milk, you jest say ter him these eer words: ‘Dorothy Rusk must be provided for. What kn I do fur her?’ The widder Rusk is his sister, yer see, an’ that’s the one soft spot the Kunnle’s got.” Vance carefully recorded the mysterious words; then asked, “Do you remember Peek, the runaway slave Hyde had in charge?” “In coorse I do,” said Quattles, twisting with pain from his wound. “Should you ever see that nigger, Mr. Vance, tell him that Amos Slink, St. Joseph Street, kn tell him su’thing’ ’bout his wife. Amos wunst tell’d me how he ’coyed her down from Montreal. ’T was through that same lawyer chap that kum it over Peek.” “Can Amos identify you as the Quattles of the Pontiac?” “In coorse he can, for he knowed all ’bout me at the time.” “And now, my friend, I wish to have this testimony of yours sworn to and witnessed; but I’m overtasking your strength.” “Do it, Mr. Vance. Help me ter lose my strength, ef yer think I kn do any good tellin’ the truth.” “Can you get along without this opiate two hours longer?” “Yes, Mr. Vance, I kn do without it altogether.” “Then I’ll leave you for two hours.” “One word, Mr. Vance.” “What is it?” “Did yer ever pray?” “Yes; every man prays who tries to do good or undo evil. You’ve been praying for the last hour, my friend.” “How did yer know that? I’ve been thinkin’ of it, that’s a fak. But I’m not up to it, Mr. Vance. Could you pray for me jest three minutes?” “Willingly, my poor fellow.” And kneeling at the little cot, Vance, holding a hand of the sufferer, prayed for him so tenderly, so fervently, and so searchingly withal, that the poor dying outcast wept as he had never wept before. O precious tears, parting the mist that hung upon his future (even as clouds are parted that hide the sunset’s glories), and revealing to his spiritual eyes new possibilities of being, fruits of repentance, through a mercy which (God be thanked!) is not measured by the mercy of men.