Much altercation here ensued—Lacy ran out of the house. “Ah!” thought he, “if we had gone to prayers this would not have happened.” He felt ashamed of having taken such a revenge on his wife, after provoking her as he did; but he was too stubborn to go back and be friends with her. He walked on towards Connor’s cabin, and as he passed the door he plainly heard the sobs of a woman within. Such a sound was very strange in that happy and quiet place—he stopped at the door, and heard Mary sob out—“I know, I know, he will protect them:—preserve them—but my life—my husband!” She could say no more, and Lacy entered. There, on his humble bed, lay poor Connor! death was pictured in his face; his cheeks were pale, his lips blue, his eyes hollow: he looked now on his wife and children, and seemed full of grief, but then he looked up to heaven, and was comforted. Mary sat beside him: her apron was drenched in her tears; she tried to hide her sorrow and to quiet her sobs, but she could not: her eyes were searching about every where, as if for some comfort; but when she saw the altered face of her husband, she almost went distracted, and could only, like him, look up to God in humble submission. William sat on his low stool with his little sister on his lap, Peter was crying by his mother’s knee, and the baby was asleep in the cradle. William was the first who saw Lacy, and trying to speak he burst into sobs and cries. His father turned slowly his eyes towards him, and saw Lacy; a look of satisfaction appeared on his countenance, and then Mary saw him too. Her grief broke out again, “Oh, neighbour, neighbour, he is dying!” she exclaimed. Lacy could not speak a word, but he shook her by the hand, and then leaned over Connor. “Lacy,” said the poor man, in a weak voice, “you wonder to see me thus—you left me well and hearty lost night, but a carriage was run away with, and the horses went over me; I am dying.” “Let me go for a doctor,” cried Lacy. “He has been here—there is no hope.” Connor spoke these words calmly, but they seemed to cut Mary to the heart. “No hope, no hope,” she repeated; “he must die.” “Don’t die, father,” said little Peter, in a piteous voice. “Oh, father, father, surely you are not going to leave us!” sobbed William; “who will teach us the Bible, or show us the way to heaven any more?” “I wish I could, O Lord teach me!” exclaimed Lacy, and he groaned. “God grant that prayer!” cried the pious Connor. “I know he hears it, and I trust his Holy Spirit will lead you to Jesus, my friend, and teach you to lead others there.” “He cannot,” said Lacy, in an agony, “I am too vile, too sinful, too wicked, he cannot.” “He will,” replied Connor fervently, “if you are now sensible of sin, and feel the need of a Saviour, you will find him; and your dying hour will be as peaceful as mine.”