It was a bright morning, early in September, that a small wedding party was assembled at Mr. Oswald’s residence; the few guests invited were all old friends.  I sent an urgent message for good old Dr. Gray and his wife, and although they seldom left Elmwood, they responded to my call, and made what, to them, was quite a long journey, that they might be present at my marriage.  That same evening we set out on our wedding tour, while my mother and Flora, with Charley Gray, returned to Elmwood; and, after travelling for several weeks, we found ourselves at my mother’s home, where we were to spend a few weeks longer before returning to the city, which was to be our permanent home.  Soon after my return to Elmwood, I received an urgent message to visit Mr. Judson, who was said to be fast failing.  I felt a degree of reluctance to go, having never once entered his dwelling since the memorable day on which I left it years ago, but I felt it my duty to comply with his request.  I found him much weaker than I had expected.  He seemed much overcome, when I softly entered the room, and extending my hand, enquired how he found himself.  “I am very weak,” he replied, “and feel that I have but a short time to live.  I have felt very anxious to see you, and I feared you would not arrive in time to see me alive.  I hope you will forgive my unkindness and harshness to you when a boy.  I did not then know that I was so unkind, but it has come back to me since.  At that time my whole desire and aim was to accumulate riches, and it was that which caused me to be harsh and unfeeling.  I have become rich, but riches will avail me but little, as I stand upon the brink of eternity, and the way looks dark before me, but it will afford me some comfort to hear you say you forgive me, before I die.”  I took his hand within my own, as I said:  “Any resentment I may once have cherished toward you, Mr. Judson, has long since passed away.  I was but a boy when I resided with you, and very likely at times taxed your patience severely, and you have my entire forgiveness for any harshness I may ever have experienced at your hands.  I am sorry to find you so ill, and hope you will soon be better.”  “No, Walter;” he replied, “that will never be, and I am now sensible that in my anxiety for the things of time, I have neglected the all-important matters of eternity.  Since I have lain upon this sick-bed I have tried to repent, and I trust I do feel sorry for my sins; but, somehow, I do not find the comfort I seek.  Would that you could tell me what to do Walter.”  Can this softened and subdued man, thought I, be the same of whom I once stood in so much fear.  As well as I was able I directed him to the sinner’s only hope, the merits of a merciful Saviour; while, at the same time, I referred him to many comforting Bible-promises; which, when I had read, he said:  “Do you think, Walter, those promises can be meant for me, who have neglected my Bible and been careless and worldly all my life long?” For answer, I directed