Read CHAPTER NINETEEN - IN THE DARK VALLEY of Amos Huntingdon , free online book, by T.P. Wilson, on ReadCentral.com.

Six weeks after the sad accident in the park the squire sat in the library after breakfast reading the county paper. Suddenly he turned very red, and his chest heaved with emotion, as his eyes ran rapidly through the following paragraph:

“Extraordinary Proceeding at the County Hospital.

“It will be remembered that some few weeks ago a terrible accident happened to one Signor Telitetti, an acrobat of professedly world-wide reputation. The unfortunate man, while performing on the high rope in the presence of some thousands of spectators, suddenly lost his self-possession, or experienced some failure in power, and in consequence fell from a considerable height to the ground. He was taken to the hospital, where, under the skilful treatment of the medical officers, he made rapid progress towards returning health and strength, having suffered no more serious injuries than the breaking of an arm and two or three ribs. To the astonishment, however, and perplexity of the hospital officials, the signor has managed to leave the premises unobserved, and in his still feeble condition, and with his arm yet in a sling, to get clear away, so that no one had any idea what had become of him. The reason, however, of this move on his part is becoming pretty plain, for it is now being more than whispered about that Signor Telitetti is no foreigner after all, but that this name is only one among many aliases borne by a disreputable stroller and swindler, who some time since victimised Lady Gambit by cheating her out of twenty pounds. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man, dreading lest the police should pounce upon him when he left the hospital fully cured, contrived to elude their vigilance by taking himself off at a time when no one would suspect him of wishing or being able to change his quarters.”

Mr Huntingdon read this over and over again, and his brow contracted as many painful thoughts crowded in upon him. Then, rising, he repaired to the morning room, where the other members of the family were assembled, reading or answering their letters. Taking the paper to Amos, he placed his finger on the painful paragraph, and signed to him to read it. Amos did so with a beating heart and troubled brow. “Anything amiss, father?” asked Walter, noticing the grave look on the faces of Mr Huntingdon and his brother. The squire made no reply, but, holding out his hand for the paper, passed it to his younger son. Julia, looking up, noticed the flushed face of her brother, and, before her father could prevent her, sprang up and, leaning over Walter’s shoulder, read the article. Then, with a wild cry, she rushed out of the room.

“Oh! what is the trouble?” exclaimed Miss Huntingdon in a tone of great distress. Once more the paper was passed on, and she read the humiliating paragraph.

All were silent for a while. Then Miss Huntingdon said, “I must go to poor Julia.”

“Do so,” said the squire; “but come back as soon as you can.”

His sister soon returned, saying that her niece had been much upset by what she had read, but would be better shortly.

“And now,” said Mr Huntingdon, “I want to know if Julia was aware who the signor was at the time when the accident happened.”

“She was,” said Walter sorrowfully.

“And could she leave her wretched husband, wounded and perhaps dying, without an attempt to see that he was properly cared for?”

“Father,” replied Walter, “it was so, and I deeply grieve over it. I tried to persuade her at the time for we both knew him too well as he lay on the ground at our feet senseless and bleeding I tried to persuade her that it was her duty to go with him; but she would not hear of it; she insisted on returning home at once, and said that he would be well looked after at the hospital, and that if she were to go to him he would only swear at her. So at last I gave it up; and she would not be pacified till I promised not to mention to any one that I knew the wretched man to be her husband. I suppose I was wrong in giving this promise, I have never felt comfortable about it; but she was so miserable till I made it that I gave her my word; and that is just how it was.”

“I quite understand you,” said his father. “Poor Julia! we must make allowances for her; but she has plainly fallen short of her duty in the matter. I trust, however, that she has now had a wholesome lesson, poor thing, and that for her children’s sake, and all our sakes, she will be content with her own home, and more ready to fulfil her duties as a mother.”

Amos did not speak, but he was deeply moved. He felt that his sister’s proper place would have been at the bedside of the man who, whatever his sins against her, was still her husband, and was when the accident had happened, for anything she knew to the contrary, crushed and dying, and about to be speedily separated from her for ever in this world. But she had not so seen her duty; she had shrunk from the pain, the sacrifice. She could not bear the thought of the interruption to her recovered home comforts and pleasures which the work of a nurse to the stricken man would involve. And could Amos make her see and acknowledge that she had erred? He feared not.

Dinner-time came. Julia was in her place as usual. There was a gloom over all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause. And so, things reverted to their ordinary channel in a few days. Julia had become again full of life and spirits, though to close observers there was something forced and unnatural about her mirth and vivacity. And one thing Amos noticed with special pain it was that she carefully avoided ever being alone with him; if they were accidentally left together by themselves, she would in a moment or two make some excuse for leaving the room.

Thus did things continue, till summer had given place to the rich beauties of autumn. It was on a mellow October morning that the post brought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was not familiar to him, and from a locality with which he was not acquainted. It was as follows:

“Dear Sir, In the course of my duties as Scripture reader in the town of Collingford, I have come upon a case which has greatly interested me. The reason for my troubling you about it will appear further on in my letter. I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow woman who lives in one of the lowest parts of this town, in a miserable house, or rather part of it. She asked me to step into a small back room and see a lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and who was in a very bad state of health, and indeed not likely to recover. I did as she desired, and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair, bowed together, and racked with a severe cough. One of his arms was in a sling, and he seemed to be suffering considerable pain in his left side. There was something in his appearance different from that of ordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak, I saw at once that he must have had a good education. I could make very little out of him at first, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyed when I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and he said some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, I persevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought him a little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had got interested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and his past history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police. However, I have nothing to do with that, and am truly sorry for him. This morning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would like me to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then I asked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak for some time, and then he said, `Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr Amos Huntingdon’ he gave me your address ­`and just tell him how I am. He will know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.’ `Shall I say anything more?’ I asked. `No,’ he said; `please, just say that, and leave it.’ So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman’s wishes. I call him a gentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! I fear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging in the town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean and healthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you with this long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anything for your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you at the Collingford station, should you think it right to come down and see him. I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris.”

It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What could be done? What was his duty? What was his sister’s duty? He felt in perplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bids us cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt’s room and read the letter to her. “What shall I do, dear aunt?” he asked.

“The question, I think, rather is,” replied Miss Huntingdon, “What ought not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to her poor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, and be with him to the last.”

“Such is my conviction too,” said Amos sadly; “but I fear that Julia will not see her duty in the light in which we see it. May I call her, and just read the letter to her before you?”

“Yes, dear boy, if you like.” So Amos repaired to the dining-room, where his sister and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation.

“What’s amiss with you now?” asked Walter, noticing the serious look on his brother’s face. “You ought to be very bright this beautiful morning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for this afternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper’s help, to bag two or three brace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to the gamekeeper’s hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting. The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and will give lovely little bits for a sketch. Won’t you join us?”

“Well,” replied Amos gravely, “it would be very nice; but just now I have a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if she will just spare me a few minutes, and come with me to my aunt’s room.”

“Dear me! what can you want with me?” asked his sister, turning deep red and then very pale. “I’m sure I don’t want to talk about anything dismal this delicious morning. Oh! don’t look so serious, Amos; you are always in the dolefuls now. Why can’t you be cheerful and jolly, like Walter?”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” replied her brother, “but there is a cause just now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to your jollity if you will.” These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach which touched her spite of herself.

She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt’s room. When all were seated, Amos produced the Scripture reader’s letter, and, expressing his deep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subdued voice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the letter from her brother’s hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving and her eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. “It’s a hoax,” she cried at last; “one of his hoaxes. It can’t be true.”

“I fear it is true,” said Amos calmly. “To me the letter bears all the marks of truth. Don’t you think so, Aunt Kate?”

“Yes, surely,” replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; “I cannot doubt its genuineness.”

Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. “And what is it, then,” she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, “that you want me to do?”

“I think, dear Julia,” said her aunt, “the real question is, What is it your duty to do?”

“Oh yes,” she cried passionately; “my duty! Duty’s a very fine thing. It’s always `duty, duty.’ But there are two parties to duty: has he done his duty? He has beaten me, starved me, cursed me is that doing his duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smitten hole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, because it’s my duty. I don’t see it at all.”

Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, “Still he is your husband, and dying.”

“Dying!” she exclaimed sneeringly; “not he it’s all pretence. If anything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, he would have been dead ages ago. But he isn’t like other men; he has got a charmed life. He’ll be all right again after a while.”

“And you will not go to him?” asked Amos, calmly and sadly.

“No, certainly not,” she cried indignantly. “I’ve suffered more than enough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, it is surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk of bringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by it myself.”

“Then,” said her brother deliberately, “I shall go.”

“You, Amos!” exclaimed both his aunt and sister.

“Yes,” he said; “my own duty is now plain to me. The poor man has let me know his case; he is my sister’s husband, however unworthy a husband; he is dying, and may be eternally lost body and soul, and by going I may be made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader’s work. The poor dying man’s heart is softened just now, and it may be that when he hears the words of God’s truth, and experiences kindness from one who has been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and find pardon before he is taken away.”

“But,” said his aunt anxiously, “you will be running a great risk of catching the fever, and may lose your own health, and even your life.”

“I know it,” he said; “I have counted the cost; and should I be taken away, I shall merely have done my duty, and” his voice trembled as he proceeded “I shall be the one best spared and least missed in the household.” As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had been gradually crouching down shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her hands over her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amos turned to his aunt and said, “Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to my father how matters are, and why I am gone? Poor Julia!” he added, raising her up gently and kissing her forehead, “all may yet be well. May I take him one kind word from you?” She did not speak, but her bosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoarse, quivering whisper, “Yes, what you like; and write and tell me if he is really dying.” Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, but appeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from her features.

The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouring town, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of his brother’s departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, and Walter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, which proved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia was concerned.

Collingford was nearly a day’s journey from Flixworth Manor, so it was not till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once the Scripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of the poor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick man was? Mr Harris shook his head.

“I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection,” said Amos. “I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord’s hands till it is done. He has sent me, and he will keep me.”

The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. “You shall lodge in my house,” he said, “if you can be satisfied with humble fare and my plain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman who looks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and go just as you please.”

“I will take you at your word, my friend,” said the other, “and will gladly pay for bed and board.”

“All right, all right,” cried Mr Harris: “and for my part I am not going to pry into your reasons for coming. You are one of the Lord’s servants on an errand of mercy and self-denying love I can see that; and you are welcome to my services and my silence.”

Amos thanked him warmly, and his moderate luggage was soon deposited in the Scripture reader’s dwelling.

The next morning, after an early breakfast, the two friends for true friends they at once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ’s image in each other set out for Orlando Vivian’s lodging.

“You must be prepared for something very miserable,” said the Scripture reader.

“I am prepared for anything,” said the other calmly. But truly Amos was staggered when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of gloom and filth, the man who had been the cause of so much distress to him and his. The atmosphere was oppressive with the concentrated foulness of numberless evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner of the room on the floor. It looked as though composed of the refuse raked from a pig-sty, and thrust into a sack which had been used for the conveyance of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none, but against the wall, where the bed’s head was supposed to be, were three or four logs of rough wood piled together, over which was laid a faded cloak crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch which the unhappy sufferer had to lay him down upon at night, or when weary of sitting in the high-backed, creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on every side in the one greasy plate, on which lay a lump of repulsive-looking food; in the broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of stale beer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed panes kept out more light than they admitted; in the ceiling, between whose smoke-grimed rafters large rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from the crowded room above; in the three-legged table, which, being loose in all its decaying joints, reeled to and fro at every touch; in the spiders, beetles, and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe, which had long found a congenial home in these dismal quarters. And there worn, haggard, hungry, suffering, helpless in the midst of all this desolation, sat the broken-down, shattered stroller, coughing every now and then as though the spasm would rend him in pieces.

The heart of Amos was touched at the terrible sight with a feeling of the profoundest pity, as he approached the chair occupied by the wreck of what might have been a man noble and good, loving and loved. Anything like resentment was entirely lost in his desire to alleviate if he could the misery he saw before him.

“I have brought a friend to see you,” said Mr Harris, stepping forward. The sick man raised his head slowly, and, as his eyes fell on Amos, he trembled violently, and clutched his chair with a convulsive grasp. Then a fit of coughing came on, and all were silent. “I will leave you together, if you please,” said the Scripture reader after a pause to Amos. “You know where to find me if I am wanted,” and he retired.

Long was it before the unhappy man could trust himself to speak. At last, having sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris had brought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law, who had now taken a seat in front of him on a three-legged stool, and said, “Shall I tell you why I sent to you, Mr Huntingdon?” Amos inclined his head. “It was,” continued the sick man, “because I have insulted you, deceived you, entrapped you, and threatened your life. That would be in most cases the very reason why you should have been the very last person I should have sent to. But I believe you are real. I believe you are a true Christian, if there is such a thing. I am not real. I am a sham, a cheat, a lie; my whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has been a lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and in Christianity, I believe you have found it. I am sure that you are real and genuine. I felt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more and more the more I think about it. So, as I am told that it is part of the character of those who really take the Bible for their guide to return good for evil, I have sent to you.”

He had uttered these words in broken sentences, and now sank back exhausted. When he had recovered himself sufficiently to listen, Amos, deeply moved, said kindly and earnestly, “You did right, my poor friend, to send to me; and now I am here, I must see what I can do for you.”

“But, can you really forgive me?” said the other, fixing his dark eyes on his visitor. “Remember how I have behaved to yourself; remember how I have behaved to your sister. Can you really forgive me.”

Amos made no immediate reply, but, taking out of his pocket a small New Testament which he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear, earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant, and, when he had finished it, added, “How could I ever hope for forgiveness from God if I could not forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner against myself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely forgive you; and oh, let me have the happiness of seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still a place in his heart and in his kingdom for you.”

The poor sufferer struggled in vain to conceal his strong emotion. Tears, sobs would burst forth. A violent fit of coughing came on, and for a time Amos feared a fatal result. But at length the sick man regained composure and a lull from his cough, and then said, with slow and painful effort, “It is true. I believe your religion is true. I cannot doubt it. It is real, for you are real. It is real for you, but, alas! not real for me.”

Amos was going to turn to another passage in his New Testament, but the other waved his hand impatiently. “No more of that now,” he said; “I have other things just at present on my mind. You know that I am a doomed man. The police are looking out for me; but I shall cheat them yet. Death will have me first. Yes, I am a dying man. Of course she has not come with you. Perhaps you have not told her that you were coming. Well, it’s better she shouldn’t come; there’s fever about, and I have dragged her down low enough already. This is no place for her. But I shall not be here long to trouble any of you. Will you tell her that I am sorry for my past treatment of her? and keep an eye on the children, will you, as you have done? Oh, don’t let them come to this!” Here the unhappy man fairly broke down.

When he had again partially recovered, Amos begged him to keep himself as quiet as he could, adding that all might yet be well, and that he must now leave him, but would return again in a few hours.

Having sought the good Scripture reader, and ascertained from him that the medical man gave no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a few days, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story of his sister’s marriage and its consequences, and now asked his advice and help as to how he could make the remaining time of his brother-in-law’s life as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Mr Harris at once threw himself heartily into the matter, and before night the dying man had been tenderly conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripture reader’s own dwelling, where everything was at once done that could alleviate his sufferings and supply his wants.

That same evening Amos wrote to his sister in these brief words: “Orlando is dying. A few days will end all.” He purposely added no words of persuasion, nor any account of his interview with her husband and what he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any such account from himself might just steel her heart against any appeal, and make her rest satisfied with what another was doing for the man whom she had vowed to love in sickness as well as in health. He knew that his scrap of a letter must prove startling by its abruptness; but he had no wish that it should be otherwise. These startling words might rouse her to a sense of her duty; if they did not, he felt that nothing would.

Two days passed over. Orlando Vivian grew weaker and weaker, but was full of gratitude to Amos. He also listened with patience and respect when the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered by his side; but he made no remark at such times. It was on the morning of the third day after the patient’s removal to his new abode that a hired carriage drew up at the Scripture reader’s door, and, to Amos’s great pleasure and thankfulness, brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by her greeting of him and by her whole manner that a new light had dawned upon her heart and conscience, in which the idol of self had been seen by her in somewhat of its true deformity. “Oh, dear Amos!” she cried, as she wept on his shoulder, “pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong, oh, very wrong; but I hope, oh, I do hope that it is not yet quite too late!” Fondly pressing her to him, her brother told her that she had his full and forgiving love; and then he gave her an account of what he had done since his arrival in Collingford, and told her that her husband was now in the same house as herself, and was receiving every attention and comfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would have at once rushed into the sick chamber, but Amos checked her, warning her of the effect such a sudden appearance might have on one in his exhausted and suffering condition. He must himself break the news of her coming gradually.

Entering the neat little bedroom, to his surprise Amos found his brother-in-law painfully agitated. “You have got a visitor,” he said, in a voice scarcely audible. “I heard a carriage drive up to the door, and since then I have heard a voice. Oh, can it be? Yes; I see it in your eyes.”

“Calm yourself, my poor brother,” said Amos; “it is even as you suppose. Julia has come, and I am truly thankful for it.”

The humbled man tried to conceal his tears with his one uninjured hand, and said at last, “I think I can bear it now; let her come in.”

On her brother’s invitation Julia entered. The eyes of the two met, the eyes of the oppressor and the oppressed; but how changed in position now! The once down-trodden wife now radiant with health and beauty, a beauty heightened by its passing cloud of tender sadness. The once overbearing, heartless husband now a stranded wreck. How haggard he looked! and how those hollow sunken eyes swam with a tearful look that craved a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair of! And could she give that pity? Had he not forsaken her and her children, and left them to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand against her and cruelly smitten her? Had he not laughed her to scorn? Had he not used her as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the child does the toy which it has covered for a time with its caresses? He had done all this, and more; and now she was there before him, but out of his clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself, to charge him with his past neglect and cruelty. Yes; the outraged wife could have done this, but the woman’s heart that throbbed in her bosom forbade it. She was the loving woman still, though the fountain of her love had been sealed for a time. Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any sudden movement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering all the while in every limb from suppressed excitement, she bowed herself over him, and gathered his head softly to her bosom, whispering, “Poor, dear Orlando, you are glad, are you not, to see me?” Then, as the huge rapid drops of the thunder-cloud, which has hung overhead for a time in the midst of oppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves one by one, and then break into a sweeping deluge, so did a storm of weeping pour from the eyes and heart of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly daring to place a hand with its pressure of answering love on the neck which that same hand had not long since disfigured with bruises and blood, he yet ventured at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering, “It is too much.” Sweetly soothing him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, and then sat down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured arm in her own.

No one spoke again for a while. At last Mr Vivian roused himself to an effort, and, disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily and sorrowfully in the face. “Tell me, Julia,” he said, “tell me the truth, tell me, can you really and from your heart forgive me? nay, do not speak till you have heard me out,” for she was about to give an eager reply. “Consider well. You know what I have been to you, the brute, the tyrant, the traitor. Can you, then, in view of all the past, forgive me from your heart?”

“I can, I do, dear Orlando, from my very heart,” she cried; “and surely I too have much to be forgiven.”

“Not by me,” he said earnestly. “And now,” he added, “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 thousand little tender services. At last the end came: there was neither joy nor peace, but there was not despair, just one little ray of hope lighted the dark valley.

When the unostentatious funeral was over, Amos and his sister returned home cast down yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued but happy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon’s private sitting-room, consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter, and their aunt. When Amos had answered many questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law, Walter turned to his aunt and said, “Now, dear auntie, you have some examples of moral courage ready for us I am sure. Amos, you are to be a good boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher, as I see you are inclined to do. I know why; but it does not matter. Julia and I want doing good to, if you don’t; so let us all attend.”

“Yes,” said Miss Huntingdon, “I know what you mean, and so of course does your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own praises, but he must not refuse to listen to the praises of others, even though their conduct may more or less resemble his own. I have some noble examples of moral courage to bring before you, for I have been thinking much on the matter since Amos and Julia left us. My heroes and heroines for I have some of each sex will now consist of those who have braved death from disease or pestilence in the path of duty. And first of all, I must go back to our old example of moral heroism I mean, to one who has already furnished us with a lesson John Howard. That remarkable man was not satisfied with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reforms in them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners. He wished to alleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures to a still greater extent; so he formed the plan of visiting the hospitals and lazarettos set apart for contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst other places he went to Smyrna and Constantinople when these cities were suffering from the plague. From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with a foul bill of health to Venice, where he became an inmate of a lazaretto. Here he was placed in a dirty room full of vermin, without table, chair, or bed. He employed a person to wash the room, but it was still dirty and offensive. Suffering here with headache and slow fever, he was removed to a lazaretto near the town, and had two rooms assigned him, both in as dirty a state as that he had left. His active mind devised a plan for making these rooms more comfortable for the next occupant, and though opposed by the indolence and prejudices of the people about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter of a bushel of lime and a brush, and, by rising very early, and bribing his attendant to help him, contrived to have the place completely purified. Now his object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease was not that he might gratify some crotchet, or get a name with the world, but that from personal experience of the unutterable miseries of such places as these lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest the needful improvements and remedies. This he had set before himself as his work; to this he believed that duty called him; and that was enough for him. Suffering, sickness, death, they were as nothing to him when weighed in the balance against high and holy duty.”

“A noble hero indeed, dear auntie,” cried Walter; “and now for another of the same sort.”

“Well, my dear boy, my second example embraces many excellent men, all devoted to the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work, I am now alluding to the Moravian missionaries. These truly heroic men, not counting their lives dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunny lands, where the charms of the scenery might in a measure make up for the toils and privations they had to undergo, nor to find among Arctic frosts and snows at any rate pure and refreshing breezes, though many of them did go forth into these inclement regions to carry the gospel of peace with them, and in so doing to endure the most terrible hardships. But the Moravians I am now speaking of are those who volunteered to enter the pest-houses and infected places from which they could never come forth again. Here they lived, and here they died, giving up every earthly comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth before those whose infected and repulsive bodies made them objects of terror and avoidance to all but those self-renouncing followers of their Saviour. Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height.”

“How wonderful!” said Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; “I could never have done it.”

“No,” said Miss Huntingdon; “nor does God commonly require such service from us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly brought up as yourself have gone forth cheerfully to little short of certain death from pestilential airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the call came. And this brings me to my last example of what I may call sublime moral courage or heroism. It is taken from the records of the Church Missionary Society. When first that society’s noble work began, its agents went forth to settle among the poor negroes of Western Africa in the neighbourhood of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on the coast was enough to terrify any one who loved his life more than Christ. In the first twenty years of that mission no fewer than fifty-three male and female missionaries died at their posts. In the year 1823, out of five who went out four died within six months, yet two years afterwards six presented themselves for that mission; and, indeed, since the formation of that mission there have never been men wanting true heroes of the Lord Jesus Christ who have willingly offered themselves for the blessed but deadly service. The women were as devoted as the men. A bright young couple, the Reverend Henry Palmer and his wife, landed at Sierra Leone on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, not two full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in June, just one month later, the wife was dead also. Yet neither spoke in their dying moments one word of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrifice they had been called to make. Another female missionary to the same parts, a widow, said: `I have now lived one year in Africa, eight months of which I have been a widow; but I cannot resolve to leave Africa.’ Another, whose course was finished in twenty-two short days, said to her husband on her death-bed: `Never once think that I repent of coming here with you.’ Her only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourage others, or damp her husband’s zeal. I have now finished my examples. I am sure, dear children, that they are to the point; I mean, that they are examples of the sublimest moral courage that courage which leads godly men and women not to shrink from duty though disease and death lie before them or hover over their path.”

“Thank you, dearest auntie,” said Walter; “you have indeed brought some glorious examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct of our own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to forget that there ever was such a person as Amos Huntingdon, but he certainly won’t succeed.”