At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Lot made his appearance. He seemed struck with the paleness of George's face; and coming to the side of the bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anxiously on his forehead, and clearing his voice several times, inquired "if he didn't feel a little better." "No, father," said George; then taking his hand, he looked anxiously in his face, and seemed to hesitate a moment. "Father," he began, "you know that we ought to submit to God." There was something in his expression at this moment which flashed the truth into the old man's mind. He dropped his son's hand with an exclamation of agony, and turning quickly, left the room. "Father! father!" said Grace, trying to rouse him, as he stood with his arms folded by the kitchen window. "Get away, child!" said he, roughly. "Father, mother says breakfast is ready." "I don't want any breakfast," said he, turning short about. "Sally, what are you fixing in that 'ere porringer?" "O, it's only a little tea for George; 'twill comfort him up, and make him feel better, poor fellow." "You won't make him feel better--he's gone," said Uncle Lot, hoarsely. "O, dear heart, no!" said Aunt Sally. "Be still a' contradicting me; I won't be contradicted all the time by nobody. The short of the case is, that George is goin' to _die_ just as we've got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish to pity I was in my grave myself, and so----" said Uncle Lot, as he plunged out of the door, and shut it after him. It is well for man that there is one Being who sees the suffering heart _as it is_, and not as it manifests itself through the repellances of outward infirmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern and wayward than for those whose gentler feelings win for them human sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle Lot a depth of religious sincerity; but there are few characters where religion does any thing more than struggle with natural defect, and modify what would else be far worse. In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the old man's character rose, and while he felt the necessity of submission, it seemed impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching himself, struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from him all external sympathy, his mind was "tempest-tossed, and not comforted."