There was no want of comfort or luxury in the sick-room.  Mother and sisters had sacrificed every such thing to this idol of their hearts, this only son and brother.  He lay propped up with pillows, his face pale as that of a corpse, and breathing with great difficulty.

Dr. Barton sat at the bedside with his finger on the patient’s pulse while he asked a few brief questions, then relapsed into a thoughtful silence.

All eyes were turned upon him with intense anxiety, waiting in almost breathless suspense for his verdict; but his countenance betrayed nothing.

“O doctor!” sighed the mother at length, “have you no word of hope to speak?”

“Let us have none of false hope, doctor,” gasped the sufferer, “I would know—­the—­worst.”

“My poor lad,” said the kind-hearted old physician, in tender, fatherly tones, “I will not deceive you.  Whatever preparation you have to make for your last long journey, let it be made at once.”

With a burst of uncontrollable anguish the mother and sisters fell upon their knees at the bedside.

“How—­long—­doctor?” faltered the sick man.

“You will hardly see the rising of another sun.”

The low, gently-spoken words pierced more than one heart as with a dagger’s point.

“Was—­this—­wound—­mortal in the—­first place?” asked Wilkins.

“I think not if it had had prompt and proper attention.  But that is a question of little importance now:  you are beyond human skill.  Is there anything in which I can assist you?”

“Yes—­yes—­pray for—­my guilty soul.”

It was no new thing for Dr. Barton to do:  an earnest Christian, he ministered to the souls as well as the bodies of his patients.  He knelt and offered up a fervent prayer for the dying one, that repentance and remission of sins might be given him, that he might have a saving faith in the Lord Jesus, and trusting only in His imputed righteousness, be granted an abundant entrance into His kingdom and glory.

“Thanks—­doctor,” gasped Wilkins, “I—­I’ve been a bad man; a—­very bad, wicked—­man; can there be any hope for—­me?”

“‘Whosoever will let him take the water of life freely.’  ’Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.’”

“Isn’t it—­too—­late?” The hollow eyes gazed despairingly into the doctor’s face.

“‘Whosoever will’:  you may come if you will; so long as death has not fixed your eternal state.”

“I will!  Lord, help—­save me! me a poor—­lost—­vile—­helpless—­sinner!” he cried, lifting his eyes and clasped hands to heaven, while great tears coursed down his sunken cheeks.  “I cast myself—­at—­thy feet; oh pardon, save me or—­I am—­lost—­lost forever.”

The eyes closed, the hands dropped, and for a moment they thought he had passed away with that agonized cry for mercy and forgiveness; but a deep sigh heaved his breast, his lips moved, and his mother bent over him to catch the words.