in which the light of disease painfully burned, and said,—­’You do well not to reproach me; the time for that is past, for I am, as you may see, on the verge of the grave.  I have striven with disease, that I might reach this place, and if possible, obtain your forgiveness ’ere my eyes shall close in death.  I know I have darkened a life, which, but for me, might have been bright and joyous.  It is too much for me to expect your forgiveness, yet I would hear you pronounce that blessed word before I die.  You may now believe me when I say, that it was my love for you which led me to deceive you.  Knowing my wife’s dread of any publicity being attached to her name, I thought the knowledge that I had a living wife would never reach you.  Of the sinfulness of my conduct I did not at that time pause to think.  I now sincerely thank my wife for preventing a marriage which in the sight of God, must have been but mockery.  I now speak truly when I say to you, I never loved my wife; I married her for money.  As I had no affection for her, my former habits of dissipation soon regained their hold on me.  It will afford me some comfort to know that I have made strictly true confession to you.  I have not, to my knowledge, a living relation in the wide world; and, till I met with you, I knew not the meaning of the word love; and I still believe that, had I met you earlier in life, your influence would have caused me to become a useful man and an ornament to my profession.  But it is useless to talk now of what cannot be recalled.  When I left this village, years ago, I was equally indifferent as to whither I went or what I did.  I felt no wish to return to my wife; and, had I been then inclined, I well knew the just contempt and scorn I should meet with, although I believe she had once loved me.  But I knew them to be a proud family, and I felt certain they would never overlook the disgrace and sorrow I had brought upon them.  I have never since seen my wife, but I lately learned that she, with the rest of her family, removed to a western city some years ago.  Since leaving this place I have wandered far and wide, never remaining long in one place.  My mind has never been at rest, and, for that reason, I have been a lonely wanderer all these years.  But my dissipated habits have done their work, and I feel that my earthly course is well nigh ended.  I have dragged my feeble body to your dwelling, with the hope of obtaining your forgiveness ‘ere I am summoned into eternity.’

“While listening to him, I had seated myself at my father’s side.  As he concluded, I said to my father, in a low voice,—­’If we forgive not our fellow-mortal, how can we expect the forgiveness of our Heavenly Father for our many sins?’ I rose from my seat and extending to him hand, said,—­’You have, Mr. Almont, my entire forgiveness for all the sorrow you have caused me, and I hope you will also obtain the forgiveness of God.’  My father also came forward, and, taking his hand, granted him his forgiveness.