eath of Grace, his
sweetheart. This was attributed to his grief, and begat pity for him,
and no one was more assiduous in endeavouring to cheer his gloom than
her brother. After their search for game, they were returning to the
village, when, by some accident, the gun which Grace's brother carried
went off, and lodged its contents in the body of his companion, who
fell, dreadfully wounded. A surgeon was sent for, who gave little hopes
of his recovery. No blame could be attached to his companion, as the
accident was seen by several, and the grief of Grace's brother was
excessive. On the Sabbath, the stranger was much worse. His mind seemed
to suffer more than his body; and words of fearful import escaped from
him at intervals, which harrowed up the souls of those who attended him.
Cries of despair, mixed with horrid imprecations, burst from his lips.
Yet death evidently was approaching fast to seize his victim. When they
spoke of sending for the minister to pray with and console him, he
blasphemed, and thus spent he his last Sabbath on earth. Through the
night he fell into a troubled sleep, and began to mutter. Gradually his
words became more distinct. He talked of Grace, and recounted her murder
as he had perpetrated it; writhed in remorse, and called for mercy from
my injured spirit, as if I had already suffered. As soon as the morning
dawned, the minister was sent for, and what the guilty man had said in
his sleep recounted to him. He was now very low; the hand of death was
on him; and, for some time, he was deaf to the remonstrances of the
divine. But at length he confessed all; told that they would find the
knife with which he had done the fearful crime buried at the back of the
cottage where he lay. All was written down by the minister. The knife
was found, stained with the blood of his victim. I was now as much the
object of pity as I had been of hatred and horror. That day my irons
were struck off; I had the freedom of the jail until my pardon arrived,
and was visited by numbers of the inhabitants, who loaded me with
presents. But my feelings of gratitude were principally awakened on my
parents' account, for the joy it imparted to them. Many, many years have
passed since that event, but it is ever present with me, and spurs me on
in my labours of love, in comforting and winning souls to God."

So deeply had I been interested in the narrative of the Pious Pedlar,
that we had reached York, and stood at the door of t