curate's visit in something of a decent and
Christian manner. One of the boys was in or
rather on, the bed—for there was no covering
—from sheer nakedness. He partly nestled
in the straw, and was partly concealed by
the rags taken from the window; he was
contented and happy, for he had had the
blessing of a full meal; a rarity in the hut
of the dying potter.

The curate took the chair borrowed for
him, placed it by the bedside, and leaned
towards the sick man.

"Well, James, how do you feel now ? "

"Better, sir, thank you, but still weakly.
God will bless you for what you ha' done.
'Tis mony a long day sin' I could prove my
gratitude to anybody."

"Never mind that. The Searcher of all
hearts knows your intentions, James."

Yes—true! But d'ye think God heeds
a poor critter like me ? "

"Undoubtedly. Our Father."

"Ah! Good—good. But I never found a
true friend but Him and yourself, sir—they all
forsook and misbelied me, I never was as
bad as people made me; He knows that, and
the children. One's hearth is a fair assize."

"True, a fond husband and a kind father
cannot be a very bad man, I never believed
you ill-disposed, Fielding,"

"No, bless thee for it, and He will bless
thee. Ye ha' made me a Christian; the ways
o' the world made me an infidel long ago.
A man kindly treated, feels like a Christian,
sir."

"But we must give up resentments, now.
I see, by your countenance you will soon meet
your God. Prepare, Fielding, for that great
judgement."

"Yes, I know it will come soon, an' that ha'
changed me. But, indeed, sir, I am aweary of
the world. If it war not for her and the
children, I had gone years back."

"The Christian religion always supposes
poverty and suffering, James. Were all the
world sinless and happy, the Atonement had
been useless."

"I can well believe thisn o' thee, sir. If
yer wer dumb an' blind, yer han' would
preach; 'tis the on'y sarmint as goes home to
a hungry man. Fine words be o' small
account. But when a rich parson, or a bishop
or such, as never gives, an' never suffers, tells
starvin poor fellows like me to bear their
crosses, as the only road to heaven, it looks
like humbug, sir. If heaven is to be won by
poverty—sartintly nothing is so easy for 'em
as to give all they ha' more than enow, to
feed the hungry, an' comfort the afflicted."

"Ah, James, this is bad grace in a dying
man. It is enough for every one to look to
himself; to bear his own burden, and to know
that in the midst of trial, and sorrow, and
suffering, he can have recourse to One who
knew them all on earth. This, surely, is fair
comfort."

"It be, sir. 'Tis at the point I am at now,
a man feels he must believe in some
religion, an' there is none so nat'ral like as our
own. A dyin' man is not a doubter. I wish
I ha' been o' this way o' thinkin' long ago—
'twould ha' made me content—an' a contented
man is a regular man, an' a regular man is a
toilsome man, an' a toilsome man is a thriving
man; but when one begins in grumblin' one
ends wi' sorrow. Mary dear, gi' me a drink,
I feel faintish,"

The curate took the teapot from the yearning
and attentive wife's hand, and the fevered
patient, from the broken spout held to his
mouth, drained the vessel greedily, till the
few leaves at the strainer whizzed with
their dryness. As he drank, Godfrey had
an opportunity of observing his
countenance. " This man," said he to
himself, " was formed for a lofty destiny, but
with him ignorance has marred nature.
When will man vindicate the purposes of
God to his fellows ? When will England
provide education for all her people?" As
these thoughts passed rapidly through the
pastor's mind, the sick man spoke with a
fainter voice, but with renewed energy: " ' the
spirit war willing, but the flesh war weak.'
Well, sir, I know I am a dyin'. I war never
a coward, but I does fear death. 'Tis like a
goin' over a common one don't know, on a
dark night—there be none about you but
sperits."

"Keep your eyes steadily on your guiding
star, James. That light sufficeth."

"I believe, sir. O Lord, help my unbelief."

"Thank Heaven for those words," said
the curate; " and now, Fielding, since
you are in this good frame of mind, I
must tell you one thing that will lighten
your last moments. Old Mrs. Williams
is getting too aged for the parish school,
and as she is to retire on a small pension,
I have secured the post for Mary. I know
she will fill it well. This will keep the
wolf from the door, and I will look to the
little ones. So you see things are not
so bad as you expected. You will leave
those dear to you pretty middling off, and
they will remain, under Providence, to be a
blessing to themselves and to their country."

"Thank God, thank God! My soul is at
peace now. She is provided for, and they,
too. Read to me, sir, please; 'twill rouse me
up—I feel drowsyish."

The curate opened his pocket Bible, and in
a sweet low voice read from the fourteenth to
the seventeenth of John. As he proceeded,
the little boy peeped up from his straw, and
sucked in the words. The sick man opened
his stiffening lids from time to time, and
murmured a prayer from unparted motionless
lips, which sounded strange and
unearthly in the small chamber. The pale
wife, with her infant daughter in her lap,
wept silently; and the little boy, Jemmy, was
seated on one of the worn-out hassocks,
holding the candle, which was stuck in a