Early on Monday morning, he sent to apprehend Giles.  In the meantime, Mr. Wilson was sent for to a gardener’s house, two miles distant, to attend a man who was dying.  This was a duty to which all others gave way, in his mind.  He set out directly; but what was his surprise, on his arrival, to see, on a little bed on the floor, poaching Giles lying, in all the agonies of death!  Jack Weston, a poor young man, against whom Giles had informed for killing a hare, was kneeling by him, offering him some broth, and talking to him in the kindest manner.  Mr. Wilson begged to know the meaning of all this; and Jack Weston spoke as follows: 

“At four this morning, as I was going out to mow, passing under the high wall of this garden, I heard a most dismal moaning.  The nearer I came, the more dismal it grew.  At last, who should I see but poor Giles, groaning and struggling under a quantity of bricks and stones, but not able to stir.  The day before, he had marked a fine large net on this old wall, and resolved to steal it; for he thought it might do as well to catch partridges as to preserve cherries:  so, sir, standing on the very top of this wall, and tugging with all his might to loosen the net from the hooks which fastened it, down came Giles, net, wall, and all; for the wall was gone to decay.  It was very high, indeed, and poor Giles not only broke his thigh, but has got a terrible blow on his brain, and is bruised all over like a mummy.

“On seeing me, sir, poor Giles cried out, ’Oh, Jack, I did try to ruin thee by lodging that information, and now thou wilt be revenged by letting me lie here and perish.’

“‘God forbid, Giles,’ cried I; ’thou shalt see what sort of revenge a Christian takes.’  So, sir, I sent off the gardener’s boy to fetch a surgeon, while I scampered home, and brought, on my back, this bit of a hammock, which is indeed my own bed, and put Giles upon it:  we then lifted him up, bed and all, as tenderly as if he had been a gentleman, and brought him in here.  My wife has just brought him a drop of nice broth; and now, sir, as I have done what I could for his poor perishing body, it was I who took the liberty to send to you to come and try to help his poor soul, for the doctor says he can’t live.”

Mr. Wilson could not help saying to himself, “Such an action as this is worth a whole volume of comments on that precept of our blessed Master, ‘Love your enemies:  do good to them that hate you.’”

Giles’ dying groans confirmed the sad account Weston had just given.  The poor wretch could neither pray himself, nor attend to the minister.  He could only cry out, “Oh, sir, what will become of me?  I don’t know how to repent.  O my poor wicked children!  Sir, I have bred them all up in sin and ignorance.  Have mercy on them, sir; let me not meet them in the place of torment to which I am going.  Lord, grant them that time for repentance which I have thrown away!” He languished a few days, and died in great misery—­a fresh and sad instance, that people who abuse the grace of God, and resist his Spirit, find it difficult to repent when they will.