“I don't wish, darlin',” said he, “to cause you sorrow--you will have too much of that; but I ax it as a favor--the last from my lips--that you will now cut off a lock of his hair--his hair fair--an' put it along with your own upon my heart; it's all I'll have of you both in the grave where I'll sleep; and, Margaret, do it now--oh, do it soon.” Margaret, who always carried scissors hanging by her pocket, took them out, and cutting a long abundant lock of the boy's hair, she tenderly placed it where he wished, in a little three-cornered bit of black silk that was suspended from his neck, and lay upon his heart. “Is it done?” said he. “It is done,” she replied as well as she could! “This, you know, is to lie on my heart,” said he, “when I'm in my grave; you won't forget that!” “No--oh, no, no; but, merciful God, support me! for Art, my husband, my life, I don't know how I'll part with you.” “Well, may God bless you forever, my darlin' wife, and support you and my orphans! Bring them here.” They were then brought over, and in a very feeble voice he blessed them also. “Now, forgive me all,” said he, “forgive ME ALL!” But, indeed, we cannot paint the tenderness and indescribable affliction of his wife and children while uttering their forgiveness of all his offences against them, as he himself termed it. In the meantime he kept his son close by him, nor would he suffer him to go one moment from his reach. “Atty,” said he, in a low voice, which was rapidly sinking;--“put his cheek over to mine”--he added to his wife, “then raise my right arm, an' put it about his neck;--Atty,” he proceeded, “won't you give me one last word before I depart?” His wife observed that as he spoke a large tear trickled down his cheek. Now, the boy was never in the habit of speaking when he was spoken to, or of speaking at all, with the exception of the words we have already given. On this occasion, however, whether the matter was a coincidence or not, it is difficult to say, he said in a quiet, low voice, as if imitating his father's-- “Daddy, won't you come to bed for me, for your own Atty?” The reply was very low, but still quite audible-- “Yes, darlin', I--I will--I will for you, Atty.” The child said no more, neither did his father, and when the sorrowing wife, struck by the stillness which for a minute or two succeeded the words, went to remove the boy, she found that his father's spirit had gone to that world where, we firmly trust, his errors, and follies, and sins have been forgiven. While taking the boy away, she looked upon her husband's face, and there still lay the large tear of love and repentance--she stooped down--she kissed it--and it was no longer there.