It was about four o’clock in the morning, when the mother and blind aunt were standing at the bedside of the dying lad. He had become very rapidly worse since his father’s departure, and had occasionally been delirious; calling aloud for his father—his dear father, without whom he was unable to live. There was a small lamp or cruise burning on a chest-lid by his bedside, and his mother sat at his head with a cup of cold water, whilst the blind woman was rubbing his legs, which now, alas! had begun to swell. The tempest howled without, and an unfeeling landlord snored loudly and fitfully from a bed in the adjoining chamber. All at once, William Austin became more composed, and began to repeat various texts and psalms—discoursing from them—as his mother said, _most beautifully_, and, ever and anon, declaring that this was the last night he would ever see. All at once he paused—and, looking fearfully wild, and forcing himself up from his pillow, he exclaimed— “My father—my father—my dear, persecuted father!” His mother and aunt, whose faces were turned to his, imagined that he had begun suddenly to rave, and tried to press him down on his pillow, when the well-known voice of Samuel Austin was _indeed_ heard declaring— “It is I—it is I, indeed!—your earthly, and real father, whom the Lord has delivered, for this special purpose, from his enemies, that he might see and bless his beloved boy, once more, ere he depart;” but, alas—alas! laying hold of his son’s hand, and finding it cold, and, at the same time, marking the fatal signal in the throat, “My boy—my boy is gone—he is gone to his God! Let us pray.” And, hereupon, he uttered the most composed and comforting prayer, thanking his Maker for the loan—the pleasing loan; and expressing his gratitude for the removal from the evil to come, which had just taken place. Meanwhile, the mother and aunt had ascertained the truth of the father’s averment, and were bathing the cold brow of the lovely boy with their tears.