It does my heart good to
hear you talk so true, so kind. How different from yesterday! then I
was a poor slave, forced from my children, with nobody to speak a
kind word for me; everybody to reckon me as a good piece of property
only. I forgive you, master-I forgive you; God is a loving God, and
will forgive you also." The sick man is consoled; and, while his
preacher kneels at his bed-side, offering up a prayer imploring
forgiveness, he listens to the words as they fall like cooling drops
on his burning soul. The earnestness--the fervency and pathos of the
words, as they gush forth from the lips of a wretch, produce a still
deeper effect upon the wounded man. Nay, there is even a chord
loosened in his heart; he sobs audibly. "Live on earth so as to be
prepared for heaven; that when death knocks at the door you may
receive him as a welcome guest. But, master! you cannot meet our
Father in heaven while the sin of selling men clings to your
garments. Let your hair grow grey with justice, and God will reward
you," he concludes.
"True, Harry; true!"--he lays his hand on the black man's shoulder, is
about to rise--"it is the truth plainly told, and nothing more." He
will have a glass of water to quench his thirst; Harry must bring it
to him, for there is consolation in his touch. Seized with another
pain, he grasps with his left hand the arm of his consoler, works
his fingers through his matted hair, breathes violently, contorts
his face haggardly, as if suffering acutely.
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