“Here is a prescription, sir,” said the doctor, “which I would advise you to take immediately.”

“Will it cure me?

“It may relieve you very much.”

“Will it cure me, I say?” said the old man, sharply.

“I cannot say; I can only promise temporary relief from its use.”

“I won’t take it.  I thank you for your patience, and shall be glad to see you again; but I won’t take your medicine.”

“If you were a child, sir, I would compel you to take it; but as it is, I can only recommend the continual application of cold bandages to your head.  I will call in this evening,” said the doctor, kindly, as he left the room.

“May!”

“I am here by you, sir.”

“It is not too late to do you an act of justice.”

“Oh, dear, dear uncle!” said May, earnestly, “forget me; forget the affairs of earth, and think of the judgment beyond the grave!  Oh, sir! indeed—­indeed, I fear, that the time is too short to be wasted on perishing things.”

“Listen to me!” said the old man, gathering up his failing energies, and speaking in a low, distinct voice; “I wish to save my soul, but fear it is too late.  My life has been one long, dark, dismal blank.  There is nothing which I can remember—­not one single thine, to cheer this dreary hour.  I have gained the world, and lost—­heaven.  Until yesterday, I derided and scorned all religions.  It has been my lot in life to become entangled and betrayed by hypocrites of various professions.  They disgusted and embittered me with all religion.  I tried to think you a hypocrite, and cursed your patience and good works as so many snares for gain.  But my eyes were opened.  I followed you yesterday, out to that old negro’s hut; I wrung the tale of your charities from your unwilling lips, and know and understand all.  And now, in return for all my harshness, my neglect, my cruel unkindness, you save my life; you tend me, nurse me, watch me, and for what? For the love of God.

“Don’t interrupt me, little one. You have proved the truth of the faith you profess by your works.  It suits me.  I need no doctrinal arguments, no theological and abstruse disquisitions, to convince me that it is right.  I believe it, May, even at the eleventh hour, when I have but little to hope.  I believe—­perhaps as devils do—­for, child, I tremble.”

“Oh, dear uncle, the grace of contrition is never given to devils.  It is Almighty God who has touched your heart.  He pities, and would save you.  ’I desire not the death of him that dieth, saith the Lord God; return ye, and live.’”

“Does he say that?”

“Yes; that, and ten thousand times more.  Think of Him, dear uncle, ’who was wounded for our transgressions, who was bruised for our sins; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and by his bruises we are healed.’”

“What must I do besides?”