N
ot long ago there died in the county Wexford, in Ireland, a deaf and dumb shoemaker named Henry Plunkett. He had for many years been a true and sincere christian, and therefore when he came to die he was not afraid, but rejoiced at the thought of meeting his Saviour. During the last few hours of his life on earth he suffered much pain; but he was quite sensible, and made signs that if the house was piled up with gold he would not take it all and live, for, he said, pointing his hand upwards, "I wish to go up." To the woman who attended him he signed, "Do not fret, not never; I am going to Jesus." "The contrast between the white face—white as marble—and the long jet black hair and beard is striking," wrote the clergyman who sent this account, shortly after his death. But beautiful as he looked in death, he looks far more beautiful in heaven, where he now is, clothed in the white robe of Christ's righteousness, which he has provided for all who truly love and serve him.