min', I'd like you ter conduc' the fun'al
services. Reckon they'll be a genuwide co'pse this yere time, fo'
suah. An', Bishop, you'll kind o' look arter Alwynda; see she gits her
cyoffee an' terbacco all right. An' I wants ter 'sure you all again
thet them thar chickens wuz the fust an' on'y thing I evah laid han's
on t' want mine. Thet's the solemn truf; ain't it, Alwynda?"

The poor woman could only rock herself in the chair, and sob, "Yes,
'tis. An', he's been a good husband to me. I've allus hed the bes' uv
everything! Oh, Lordy, 'pears 's though I cyan't bear it, nohow!"

Louise put her hand gently on the thin shoulder, saying, "I will see
that she never wants anything we can give, Demming; and we will try to
comfort her."

The cracker looked wistfully from her fresh, young face to the worn
face below. "She wuz 's peart an' purty 's you, miss, w'en I fust
struck up with 'er," said he, slowly. "Our little gal wuz her very
image. Alwynda," in a singularly soft, almost diffident tone, "don'
take on so; mabbe I'm gwine fer ter see 'er again. 'Twon't do no harm
ter think so, onyhow," he added, with a glance at Talboys, as though
sure there of comprehension.

Then the Bishop spoke, solemnly, though with sympathy, urging the
dying man, whose worldly affairs were settled, to repent of his sins
and prepare for eternity. "Shall I pray for you, Demming?" he said, in
conclusion.

"Jes' as you please, Bishop," answered Demming, and he tried to wave
his hand. "I ain't noways partickler. I reckon God a'mighty knows I'd
be th' same ole Demming ef I could get up, an' I don' mean ter make no
purtenses. But mabbe it'll cheer up th' ole 'ooman a bit. So you
begin, an' I'll bring in an Amen whenever it's wanted!"

So speaking, Demming closed his eyes wearily, and the Bishop knelt by
the bedside. Talboys and Louise left them, thus. After a while, the
wife stretched forth her toil-worn hand and took her husband's. She
thought she was aware of a weak pressure. But when the prayer ended
there came no Amen. Demming was gone where prayer may only faintly
follow; nor could the Bishop ever decide how far his vagabond had
joined in his petitions. Such doubts, however, did not prevent his
cherishing an assured hope that the man who died for him was safe,
forever. The Bishop's theology, like that of most of us, yielded,
sometimes, to the demands of the occasion.

LOST.

BY EDWARD BELLAMY.

_Scribner's Monthly, December, 1877._