The emphatic language, uttered in such supplicating tones, and so at variance with his habits of life, naturally excited the feelings of his physician, whose only solicitude had been evinced in his efforts to save life,—­to heal the wound.  Never had he watched at a patient’s bed-side who had exhibited such convulsions of passion,—­such fears of death.

Now struggling against a storm of convulsions, then subsiding into sluggish writhings, accompanied with low moans, indicating more mental disquietude than bodily pain.  Again he is quiet; points to his coat.

The physician brings it forward and lays it upon the bed, where Mr. M’Fadden can put his hand upon it.  “It is there—­in there!” he says, turning on his left side, and with a solicitous look pointing to the pockets of his coat.  The professional gentleman does not understand him.

He half raises himself on his pillow, but sinks back fatigued, and faintly whispers, “Oh, take it to him—­to him!  Give him the comforter:  bring him, poor fellow, to me, that his spirit may be my comforter!”

The physician understands, puts his hand into the pocket; draws forth the little boon companion.  It is the Bible, book of books; its great truths have borne Harry through many trials,—­he hopes it will be his shield and buckler to carry him through many more.  Its associations are as dear to him as its teachings are consoling in the days of tribulation.  It is dear to him, because the promptings of a noble-hearted woman secretly entrusted it to his care, in violation of slavery’s statutes.  Its well-worn pages bear testimony of the good service it has done.  It was Franconia’s gift-Franconia, whose tender emotions made her the friend of the slave-made in the kindness of woman’s generous nature.  The good example, when contrasted with the fierce tenor of slavery’s fears, is worthy many followers.

But men seldom profit by small examples, especially when great fears are paramount.

The physician, holding the good book in his hand, enquires if Mr. M’Fadden would have him read from it?  He has no answer to make, turns his feverish face from it, closes his eyes, and compressing his forehead with his hands, mutely shakes his head.  A minute or two passes in silence; he has re-considered the point,—­answers, no!  He wants Harry brought to him, that he may acknowledge his crimes; that he may quench the fire of unhappiness burning within him.  “How seldom we think of death while in life,—­and how painful to see death while gathering together the dross of this worldly chaos!  Great, great, great is the reward of the good, and mighty is the hand of Omnipotence that, holding the record of our sins, warns us to prepare.”  As Mr. M’Fadden utters these words, a coloured woman enters the room to enquire if the patient wants nourishment.  She will wait at the door.

The physician looks at the patient; the patient shakes his head and whispers, “Only the boy.  The boy I bought to-day.”  The Bible lays at his side on the sheet.  He points to it, again whispering, “The boy I took it from!”