ded, "as you have
assured me of your forgiveness, and as my days in this world can be but
few,--nay, I know it, I know it,--I have two dying requests to make of
you, and only two. Will you grant me them?"

"Oh yes, yes, dear husband, if they are in my power."

"They are perfectly within your power. The first is, that you would try
and pay back part of my deep debt of gratitude to your noblest of
brothers, who is standing there--to Amos Huntingdon, whom _I_ dare not
call brother; and I will tell you how the payment is to be made--not in
gold or silver, for he would not take such payment, but in giving
yourself up to the service of that Saviour whom he has truly and
courageously followed. That, I know, would be the only payment he would
care to accept, and that will rejoice his heart. Will you promise?"

"Oh, that I will!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands passionately
together. "I have misunderstood, I have thwarted dear Amos shamefully,
but now I can truly say, `His people shall be my people, and his God my
God.'"

"Thank you for that. My second request concerns our children. Promise
me that you will not take them from under your brother's eye, and that
you will strive to bring them up as he would have you; then I shall know
that they will be spared such misery as this, that they will not need to
be reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful example of their
unworthy and guilty father."

"I promise, I promise!" cried the weeping wife, burying her face in her
husband's bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again there was a
sweet smile on her features as she said, "Dearest Orlando, all may yet
be well, even should you be taken from us."

"For you, yes; for me, I cannot say," was his reply.

"Oh yes," she cried earnestly; "I am sure that dear Amos has put before
you the way to the better land, open to us all through our loving
Saviour; and I prayed last night--oh, so earnestly--that you might find
that way."

"Thank you for that," he said mournfully; "it may be so; at any rate I
have got thus far--I shall not cease to cry, so long as I have breath,
`God be merciful to me a sinner.'" And these were the last words on the
poor penitent's lips.

For three days after this interview he lingered in much pain, but
without a murmur. Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God and
prayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark. Julia was
constantly with him, and poured out her rekindled love in a