“Ah!” feebly moaned the man upon the bed. “The waste since then, the waste of life since then!” “But he was a child once,” said the old man. “He played with children. Before he lay down on his bed at night, and fell into his guiltless rest, he said his prayers at his poor mother’s knee. I have seen him do it, many a time; and seen her lay his head upon her breast, and kiss him. Sorrowful as it was to her and me, to think of this, when he went so wrong, and when our hopes and plans for him were all broken, this gave him still a hold upon us, that nothing else could have given. Oh, Father, so much better than the fathers upon earth! Oh, Father, so much more afflicted by the errors of Thy children! take this wanderer back! Not as he is, but as he was then, let him cry to Thee, as he has so often seemed to cry to us!” As the old man lifted up his trembling hands, the son, for whom he made the supplication, laid his sinking head against him for support and comfort, as if he were indeed the child of whom he spoke. When did man ever tremble, as Redlaw trembled, in the silence that ensued! He knew it must come upon them, knew that it was coming fast. “My time is very short, my breath is shorter,” said the sick man, supporting himself on one arm, and with the other groping in the air, “and I remember there is something on my mind concerning the man who was here just now, Father and William—wait!—is there really anything in black, out there?” “Yes, yes, it is real,” said his aged father. “Is it a man?” “What I say myself, George,” interposed his brother, bending kindly over him. “It’s Mr. Redlaw.” “I thought I had dreamed of him. Ask him to come here.” The Chemist, whiter than the dying man, appeared before him. Obedient to the motion of his hand, he sat upon the bed. “It has been so ripped up, to-night, sir,” said the sick man, laying his hand upon his heart, with a look in which the mute, imploring agony of his condition was concentrated, “by the sight of my poor old father, and the thought of all the trouble I have been the cause of, and all the wrong and sorrow lying at my door, that—” Was it the extremity to which he had come, or was it the dawning of another change, that made him stop? “—that what I _can_ do right, with my mind running on so much, so fast, I’ll try to do. There was another man here. Did you see him?” Redlaw could not reply by any word; for when he saw that fatal sign he knew so well now, of the wandering hand upon the forehead, his voice died at his lips. But he made some indication of assent. “He is penniless, hungry, and destitute. He is completely beaten down, and has no resource at all. Look after him! Lose no time! I know he has it in his mind to kill himself.” It was working. It was on his face. His face was changing, hardening, deepening in all its shades, and losing all its sorrow. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you know him?” he pursued.