seldom spoke to me
but at those times when, with tenderness almost feminine, he gave me
food and medicine, arranged my pillows, or made affectionate inquiries
about my bodily state. I often pretended to be asleep, while my mind
was actively employed in conjuring up a host of ghastly phantoms, which
prevented my recovery, and were effectually undermining my reason.

One afternoon, as I lay in a sort of dreamy state, between sleeping and
waking, and mournfully brooding over my perishing hopes and approaching
dissolution, I thought that a majestic figure, clothed in flowing
garments of glistening white, came to my bedside, and said to me in
tones of exquisite sweetness, "Poor, perishing, sinful child of earth!
if you wish to enter Heaven, you must first forgive your enemies. The
gate of Life is kept by Love, who is ready to open to every one who
first withdraws the bar which Hatred has placed before the narrow
entrance."

Overwhelmed with fear and astonishment, I started up in the bed,
exclaiming in tones of agonized entreaty, "Oh, God, forgive me! I
cannot do it!"

"Do what, dear Geoffrey?" said George, coming to the bedside, and
taking my hand in his.

"Forgive my enemies. Forgive those wretches who have brought me to this
state, and by their cruel conduct placed both life and reason in
jeopardy. I cannot do it, though He, the merciful, who dying forgave
his enemies, commands me to do so."

"Geoffrey," said Harrison, soothingly, "you can never recover your
health, or feel happy till you can accomplish this great moral victory
over sin and self."

"I cannot do it!" I responded, turning from him, and burying my face in
the bed-clothes while I hardened my heart against conviction. "No, not
if I perish for refusing. I feel as if I were already with the
condemned."

"No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. "Hatred and its concomitant
passion, Revenge, are feelings worthy of the damned. I beseech you,
Geoffrey, by the dying prayer of that blessed Saviour, whom you profess
to believe, try to rise superior to these soul-debasing passions; and
not only forgive, but learn to pity, the authors of your sufferings."

"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."

"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and
accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does
not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"

"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgi