At length, Harry,
feeling that his presence may be intrusive, breaks the silence by
enquiring if there is anything he can do for master. Mr. M'Fadden
whispers something, lays his trembling hand on Harry's, casts a
meaning glance at the physician, and seems to swoon. Returning to
his bed-side, the physician lays his hand upon the sick man's brow;
he will ascertain the state of his system.
"Give-him-his-Bible," mutters the wounded man, pointing languidly to
the table. "Give it to him that he may ask God's blessing for me-for
me-for me,--"
The doctor obeys his commands, and the wretch, heart bounding with
joy, receives back his inspiring companion. It is dear to him, and
with a smile of gratitude invading his countenance he returns
thanks. There is pleasure in that little book. "And now, Harry, my
boy," says M'Fadden, raising his hand to Harry's shoulder, and
looking imploringly in his face as he regains strength; "forgive
what I have done. I took from you that which was most dear to your
feelings; I took it from you when the wounds of your heart were
gushing with grief-" He makes an effort to say more, but his voice
fails; he will wait a few moments.
The kind words touch Harry's feelings; tears glistening in his eyes
tell how he struggles to suppress the emotions of his heart. "Did
you mean my wife and children, master?" he enquires.
M'Fadden, somewhat regaining strength, replies in the affirmative.
He acknowledges to have seen that the thing "warn't just right.
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