I had concluded that the wounded man still lay at the house on the other side of the Swamp, to which he had first been carried; and had it not been for an accident, we should have had a long ride for no purpose. Just as we approached what they called the new place, my horse began to go lame; and seeing an old negro standing at the door, I beckoned to him to come and take out the stone which I was sure had got jammed into the beast's hoof. The old man name up at a slow pace; and, as he approached, to my surprise, I found it was that very remarkable person, Uncle Jack. Between him and me, the stone was soon removed, and I happened to ask him, just as I was re-mounting, what he was doing there.

"I am waiting to see Mr. Thornton again, sir," he said; "Mr. William Thornton. His son Robert, you know, is dead."

"Do you mean to say the old man has been brought over here?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, sir; he would be brought over last night, in spite of all remonstrance, and I fear he has killed himself thereby," was Uncle Jack's answer. I called to Mr. Wheatley, who had ridden on, and beckoned him back; and while he was returning, I proceeded to ask Uncle Jack what he meant by saying that he was waiting to see Mr. Thornton again.

"Why you see, sir," answered the old negro-preacher, "I knew the gentleman whom you call the old man, when he was quite a little boy; and much used I to talk to him at that time, so that even when he had grown up to be a lad and did things which I hope God will forgive, I had much influence over him--very much for a poor ignorant negro to have over a well-educated white man. He would listen to me when he would listen to nobody else; and, more or less, has done so all his life. So I came here as soon as I heard what had happened. I found him very rash and raving last night; but this morning he is down, sir--down, down, very low indeed--down in mind, and body, and heart; but it is by the blessing of God it is so, for I trust yet to bring his mind into a better frame to meet his Maker; and you know, sir, we must never despair, after the thief on the cross. This morning he listened to me quite willingly; and seemed to take comfort when I told him of mercy and pardon. Last night, he would not hear at all, but cursed and blasphemed till I was glad to get away." The concatenation of a black teacher and a white neophyte had probably not occurred since the days of the apostles; still I was very glad to avail myself of any circumstances which would enable me to obtain light in a matter where the whole feelings of my own heart and that of another were so deeply interested. There are some cases in the world were we know no compromise--where, for the sake of our own peace, we must know all, see all distinctly--really--as it is, lest there be, somewhere in the dark outskirts and corners of the den of circumstances, some incubus which may swell and grow, and oppress the heart till it crushes us to death. Such seemed the case with me. I determined to know all, if it could be known--I determined that there should be no dark and cloudy spot, no storm upon the edge of the sky, the course and nature of which I did not know; and, although the future, the dark predestined future, no man can truly divine--the past, upon which the seal of destiny was set, the true, irrevocable past, might well be scanned, till the real gold of truth should be separated from the dross of doubt and falsehood.

"We want much," I said, addressing the old negro, "to see Mr. William Thornton upon business of great importance--business which has even reference to the hour of death, and which must not be postponed. Indeed, this gentleman must see Mr. Thornton in order to spare him greater discomfort at this sad and perilous moment. I may have more personal views; but at the same time, my good friend, I cannot help thinking that he who parts from this world with a free confession of his errors in it, and some expression of regret, sets forth for the wide future with more comfort and more hope."

"Assuredly," replied the negro; "and I will try to bring him to receive you as tranquilly and as willingly as may be. But I cannot answer for success; perhaps he may refuse--perhaps you may have to force your way to him whether he desires it or not, as I had last night; but at all events, I will do my best. Wait here, and I will return to you presently. He was somewhat drowsy when I left him; and I was glad to give him a little repose; for the words which I had read to him from the Great Teacher had tortured him like the first effect of a strong medicine for the cure of a terrible disease." The old man paused; and, after a moment or two of silent thought, went back into the house, telling some of his dark brethren to take care of our horses. We followed him into one of the lower rooms; and the contrast was certainly very sad between the aspect of his dwelling and that of his cousin Mr. Henry Thornton. They had set out in life very nearly equal in fortune--perhaps, of the two, William Thornton was the more wealthy; yet the one had surrounded himself with family ties: had lived in comfort, if not in splendour, had done right and justice to all men; had preserved a high and unspotted name; and, in moderation, had continued in peace and competence. Probably his household presented no difference from the state in which it existed twenty years before; he had sought for nothing higher, he had fallen no lower. On the contrary, in the house wherein we now stood, we could trace the footsteps of dishonest ambition, disappointment, and decay. It was the latter stage, indeed, which was altogether visible. Misery and dilapidation--neglect, and the consequences of neglect, made their abiding place in this dwelling. Yet, every here and there, were slight indications of the steps by which the consummation had been arrived at--a velvet sofa worn through to the sacking--a rich carpet trodden out to the warp--window-frames long unpainted, with the glass rattling in the shrunken wood-work--many a pane cracked and not repaired--chairs broken and unserviceable--tables wanting castors, and leaning, like cripples, on one side--everything, in short, which could display the careless apathy of minds either occupied by eager schemes for the future, or crushed by the disappointment of the past. In that melancholy parlour the black preacher left us, saying,--

"I will go up to him again and see what progress I can make. He is in the room just above; and if I stamp with my foot, it is to show that you had better come up to the door, where I will give you some sign when you shall come in. It is better that you should present yourselves quietly, than run the risk of rousing him into one of his fits of fury, when nothing on earth is to be done with him." Thus saying, he left us; and Mr. Wheatley and I remained a quarter of an hour or more very nearly in silence. He was more impatient than I was, for I think he is naturally of a more irritable disposition. He would sit for a few minutes, and then rise and walk about the room. Then he would open the window-blinds and look out; and then he would sit upon another chair and listen. We could hear, during the greater part of the time, a murmur of low voices; but it was impossible to distinguish who was speaking. At length, Mr. Wheatley, with his whole patience exhausted, jumped up, exclaiming,--

"Come, we had better go up and see what is taking place. We may be kept here all day; and you have business, and so have I, to attend to." Without waiting for reply or assent, he opened the door, went out, and mounted the staircase; but at the top we heard the murmur of voices from a room on the left; and putting my hand upon his arm, I stopped him just as he was about to enter.

"Stay a moment," I said. "It is cruel to intrude upon a dying man. That voice sounds very differently now."

"Pooh! that is the old preacher's voice," said Mr. Wheatley, pushing the door partly open. But he paused immediately; for the scene within had a simple solemnity in it which affected even him. There lay old William Thornton, stretched upon a faded bed, with his head turned partly away from us, but with the long, whitish hair, uncombed and rough, scattered on the pillow. Kneeling at the other side of the bed was the good old man, Uncle Jack. A book was open before him, and he was reading aloud that sublime chapter in the Gospel wherein the Saviour teaches his disciples how to pray. His voice was fine, and, notwithstanding his great age, unbroken; and there was a peculiar tone of loving confidence in it as he read the only perfect prayer, that was very touching. He laid particular emphasis on the words,--"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." But when he stopped, Mr. Thornton remarked, in a very feeble voice,--

"Well, it is very fine; I always thought so; yet I don't half understand it, old man. Let us hear what you make of it."

"I doubt, master, that I am competent to make much of it, where you, so much better taught, do not understand it," answered Uncle Jack.

"I don't know," said the dying man. "You have thought of nothing but such things, and I have thought of them too little, perhaps."

"Well, I will try," said the negro. "You see, sir, there is no piece of writing that I know of in which every word has so much meaning. It first begins by teaching us what God is."

"I don't see that," said Mr. Thornton. "But go on--go on."

"It tells us that He is a Father to those who pray unto Him sincerely--One who has the feelin? and affection of a parent--not alone the Being who created us, but who still regards us as His children, however wayward and sinful--who is as ready to be reconciled to us as a Father to an erring child, and to give us all good things as a Father gives good gifts unto his children. Oh, what a tender idea it gives us of our God, when we are taught by His own word to address Him as our Father! But then it shows us His greatness also--His majesty and power. It is not an earthly Father whom we address, who may not be able to give us what we seek--who may have no power to protect, no means of comforting or blessing us; but our Father which is in Heaven. That does not mean here or there--in this place or that; but above all, ruling all, upon the throne of His majesty and His power, in the centre of, and throughout all His universe, in the Heaven of His own glory and love.

"Well may the prayer go on, 'Hallowed be thy name!' Let His great name always be sacred; but, above all, let it be hallowed when it is written, 'Our Father which art in Heaven!'

"'Thy kingdom come!' are the next words."

"Ay, that I do not understand," said Mr. Thornton, faintly. "Why should people pray to die when they want to live? I could never understand that."

"It is no prayer for death, sir," said the old negro teacher. "Our Saviour has said,--'The kingdom of God is within you!' and it may either be a prayer that the holy and happy kingdom of God be established with all its peace in our own hearts, or that it be established in its purity and unity throughout the whole world. 'Thy will be done!' are the succeeding words; and these teach, first, that resignation to the will of God which is one of the purest forms of His worship--a humble acknowledgment of His wisdom, and mercy, and love; and a profession of our full faith, and trust, and confidence in Him; and secondly, taken with the words that follow, how we ought to do God's will ourselves, and how we ought to wish all others to do it, 'in earth as it is in Heaven!' not slowly, not grudgingly, not doubtingly; but with joy and alacrity, and full faith and trust--as it is performed spontaneously by the holy angels." Mr. Thornton moved impatiently in his bed; and the old man, as if afraid that he would interrupt him, proceeded more rapidly.

"The prayer then goes on to say, 'Give us this day our daily bread!' That means, I think, the complete provision of God's mercy--all that is needful for us during that day, as well for the body as the soul--the bread that sustains the flesh, and the bread of life itself--all, in short, that we want and require--"

"Well, that is sensible," said the wounded man, in a somewhat stronger voice. "It is a very fine prayer; I don't deny it."

"You can't think, sir, what a comfort it would be to you if you could but make up your mind to repeat it."

"I think I can repeat it," said Mr. Thornton. "I am sure my mother made me say it so often when I was young, that I can't have forgotten it--though that is a long time ago. Let me see." And he began the prayer, murmuring in a low, but still articulate voice. He proceeded very fluently till he came to the words, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." There he paused, and muttered something between his teeth.

"Those are the most important words of all," said the old negro, earnestly. "Upon these words hang the only hope of being forgiven. Oh, Mr. Thornton, do say them. If ever you have done anything to offend God--if you have ever done anything to injure man--if you have any cause to fear the judgment hereafter, and which of us has not?--if there be one act in your whole life which you could wish to blot out--forgive, if you would be forgiven."

"Davenport!" ejaculated Mr. Thornton, in a wandering tone, "Davenport! He did not trespass against me; but his wife did. She spat at me--she called me villain, and scoundrel--said she would tell her husband all. I recollect how he looked when he died. She could not have told him, Uncle Jack, for there was no time; yet he looked very much as if he thought I had done something. It was a bitter, reproachful sort of look. But I say, uncle, do you think that we are obliged to forgive those who have never trespassed against us as well as those who have? That's the question." The man's mind was evidently beginning to wander, and Mr. Wheatley entered the room without further ceremony.

"Ah, doctor," cried the wounded man, turning round in the bed as soon as he heard a step; but when his eyes fell upon Mr. Wheatley, a strange and fearful change came upon his countenance. When he first turned it, it was not only as usual, red from long habits of somewhat excessive drinking, but apparently flushed with fever. When he beheld Mr. Wheatley, however, the colour changed in a moment to a cadaverous white, with here and there a bluish spot; neither did it resume its former hue: the effect was permanent, and he remained looking more like a dead man than a living one. Wheatley saw the change which had taken place; and, advancing to his bed-side, he spoke kindly to him, and in a cheerful tone.

"Ah, Mr. Thornton," he said, "I am sorry to see you ill. I came over to inquire after you, and try if we could not settle that little matter between you and me amicably."

"Who is that man?" said Mr. Thornton, glaring at me, as I stood a little behind my friend. "I have seen him before. It can't be Richard Conway come out of the Chesapeake--he is very like him."

"No, no," said Mr. Wheatley. "He's been dead near twenty years."

"Ay," said Mr. Thornton, gloomily, "he's rotten enough by this time."

"Just try to gather your thoughts together," said Mr. Wheatley; "and see if we can't arrange this matter about the thirty thousand dollars quietly. I think we can; for as to my share of the matter, I can wait; and as for Griswold's, I have a proposal to make to you."

"Uncle Jack," said Mr. Thornton, in a low voice, "give me a tumbler full of whisky--make haste, man, I feel faint. There's the bottle by the bed-side." With evident reluctance, the old negro found out the spirit, and the dying man drank it off at a draught. It seemed to revive him a little, but it made no change in his colour.

"A proposal!" he said, in a stronger voice. "What proposal? I cant pay you the first cent. I have been disappointed in the money I expected; that's the long and the short of it. As to the estate, you can't touch that; for that's settled upon Robert long ago." He had forgotten that his son was dead; but it seemed suddenly to flash upon his recollection, for he paused and put his hand to his head, stammering forth,--

"I forgot, I forgot. A proposal! what proposal?"

"Why this, and I think it a very kind one," said Mr. Wheatley. "A young lady--a very good and generous young lady--offers to advance you the sum necessary to pay off your debt to Mr. Griswold. For my part, I shall not trouble you, in the situation in which you now are; but he, depend upon it, will have no hesitation in taking everything he can take, if the money is not paid by noon to-morrow. You had, therefore, better accept this lady's proposal at once."

"Who is she?" asked Mr. Thornton. "Give me some more whisky, Jack. I feel--I don't know what I feel. Who is she, Wheatley?"

"None other than Miss Davenport," replied Mr. Wheatley. A spasm like that of death came over the sick man's face.

"I won't have it--I won't take it--I won't have to thank Bessy Davenport for a cent," he cried in a voice preternaturally loud. "Give me the whisky, you old black villain--give me the whisky."

"Oh, Master Thornton," said Uncle Jack, "forgive, if you would be forgiven! Don't you know, don't you feel, that you are dying? That you are going before that God to whom you were just now trying to say, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.' Does not poor Bessy Davenport forgive you? And should you keep up rancour towards her? Oh, take her offer, sir, and follow her example before you die."

"Dying," said the old man feebly. "Am I dying? I do believe I am. Give me the whisky, Jack. I can't die yet--I am not yet ready. Oh God, give me a little time to think!" The old negro looked across to somebody who had just come in and stood behind me. It was Doctor Christy, who said:--

"Give it to him; it can neither do good nor harm; but it may keep him up for half-an-hour or so, if there's business to be done. You see," he continued, speaking to me in a lower tone, as I turned towards him, "there is the Hippocratical visage. No escaping from that!"

"Am I dying?" asked Mr. Thornton, as soon as he had drunk the whisky; "am I dying, doctor?"

"Yes, sir, you are," replied the surgeon, almost sternly.

"How long?" asked the other, in a sad and a subdued tone.

"Long enough to show repentance if you will," answered Doctor Christy. "Long enough to make your will, if it is not a very long one."

"The will be d----d," said the old man, in his usual phraseology, which he could not abandon even at that awful moment. "Everything is in confusion. I have no time for that."

"Oh, sir," said Uncle Jack, "let me pray----"

"Hush!" said the dying man. "You told me I was to forgive--but forgiveness is nothing, unless I redress--did Bessy Davenport really make that offer?" he continued, looking at Mr. Wheatley.

"She did," replied the other.

"Here, get me the keys out of my pocket. There, take this one," he continued, as soon as he had got them. "Now open that cupboard door, that mahogany cupboard in the corner. On the shelf you will find a tortoise-shell casket, I think they call it.--Have you got it?"

"I haven't opened the door yet," said Mr. Wheatley. "Yes, here it is."

"Bring it here then, and the key that lies beside it. Heaven! how my head swims. There, take that to Bessy Davenport. Tell her I sent it to her with my dying hands. Tell her I am sorry for all I have done--very sorry; that I have often been sorry, but that I would not let myself think so. There, take it. She will find in it what puts all questions about Aunt Bab's property at an end. Now, doctor, tell me, upon your soul, am I dying? Can nothing be done to save me? If you could extract the ball?"

"It would be no use," answered the surgeon. "It has got in amongst the bones of the hip-joint, and your face shows me at once that mortification has set in. There was a chance yesterday, if you would but have been quiet, and abstained from drinking: to-day there is none."

"Well, then, all of you leave me to die like an old fox in his hole," said Mr. Thornton. "Stay, stay, Uncle Jack. You turn to, and see what you can do for my soul. We won't think of the body any more. There! Go the rest of you. I don't want to hear you talk any more. My time is but short, and I must do what I can with it."