“Oh, Art, darlin', I can think of nothing now, asthore, but our love,” she replied, bursting into a flood of tears, in which she was joined by the children--Atty, the unconscious Atty, only excepted. “An' I can think of little else,” said he, “than our sorrows and sufferins, an' all the woful evil that I brought upon you and them.” “Darlin',” she replied, “it's a consolation to yourself, as it is to us, that whatever your errors wor, you've repented for them; death is not frightful to you, glory be to God!” “No,” said he, looking upwards, and clasping his worn hands; “I am resigned to the will of my good and merciful God, for in him is my hope an' trust. Christ, by his precious blood, has taken away my sins, for you know I have been a great sinner;” he then closed his eyes for a few minutes, but his lips were moving as if in prayer. “Yes, Margaret,” he again proceeded, “I am goin' to lave you all at last; I feel it--I can't say that I'll love you no more, for I think that even in heaven I couldn't forget you; but I'll never more lave you a sore heart, as I often did--I'll never bring the bitther tear to your eye--the hue of care to your face, or the pang of grief an' misery to your heart again--thank God I will not; all my follies, all my weaknesses, and all my crimes--” “Art,” said his wife, wringing her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break, “if you wish me to be firm, and to set our childre an example of courage, now that it's so much wanted, oh, don't spake as you do--my heart cannot stand it.” “Well, no,” said he, “I won't; but when I think of what I might be this day, and of what I am--when I think of what you and our childre might be--an' when I see what you are--and all through my means--when I think of this, Margaret dear, an' that I'm torn away from you and them in the very prime of life--but,” he added, turning hastily from that view of his situation, “God is good an' merciful, an' that is my hope.” “Let it be so, Art dear,” replied Margaret; “as for us, God will take care of us, and in him we will put our trust, too; remimber that he is the God and father of the widow an' the orphan.” He here appeared to be getting very weak, but in a minute or two he rallied a little, and said, while his eye, which was now becoming heavy, sought about until it became fixed upon his son-- “Margaret, bring him to me.” She took the boy by the hand, and led him over to the bedside. “Put his hand in mine,” said he, “put his blessed hand in mine.” She did so, and Art looked long and steadily upon the face of his child. “Margaret,” said he, “you know that durin' all my wild and sinful coorses, I always wore the lock of hair you gave me when we wor young next my heart--my poor weak heart.” Margaret buried her face in her hands, and for some time could not reply.