That was all I ever got out of him.  He told me he had not been to church for ten years, as “it was not in his line.”  He did not understand matters of that sort, he said, as his business was running a meat-market.  He intended no disrespect to me or to sacred things—­this was his way of putting the matter in his simple-heartedness.

“Shall I kneel here and pray with you?” I asked.

“No; you needn’t take the trouble, parson,” he said, gently; “you see I’ve got to go, and that’s all there is of it.  I don’t understand that sort of thing—­it’s not in my, line, you see.  I’ve been in the meat business.”

“Excuse me, my old friend, if I ask if you do not, as a dying man, have some thoughts about God and eternity?”

“That’s not in my line, and I couldn’t do much thinking now any way.  It’s all right, parson—­I’ve got to go, and Old Master will do right about it.”

Thus he died without a prayer, and without a fear, and his case is left to the theologians who can understand it, and to the “Old Master” who will do right.

I was called to see a lady who was dying at North Beach, San Francisco.  Her history was a singularly sad one, illustrating the ups and downs of California life in a startling manner.  From opulence to poverty, and from poverty to sorrow, and from sorrow to death—­these were the acts in the drama, and the curtain was about to fall on the last.  On a previous visit I had pointed the poor sufferer to the Lamb of God, and prayed at her bedside, leaving her calm and tearful.  Her only daughter, a sweet, fresh girl of eighteen, had two years ago betrothed herself to a young man from Oregon, who had come to San Francisco to study a profession.  The dying mother had expressed a desire to see them married before her death, and I had been sent for to perform the ceremony.

“She is unconscious, poor thing!” said a lady who was in attendance, “and she will fail of her dearest wish.”

The dying mother lay with a flushed face, breathing painfully, with closed eyes, and moaning piteously.  Suddenly her eyes opened, and she glanced inquiringly around the room.  They understood her.  The daughter and her betrothed were sent for.  The mother’s face brightened as they entered, and she turned to me and said, in a faint voice: 

“Go on with the ceremony, or it will be too late for me.  God bless you, darling!” she added as the daughter bent down sobbing, and kissed her.

The bridal couple kneeled together by the bed of death, and the assembled friends stood around in solemn silence, while the beautiful formula of the Church was repeated, the dying mother’s eyes resting upon the kneeling daughter with an expression of unutterable tenderness.  When the vows were taken that made them one, and their hands were clasped in token of plighted faith, she drew them both to her in a long embrace, and then almost instantly closed her eyes with a look of infinite restfulness, and never opened them again.