My father was really
dying, and every moment was of infinite value to him now. As soon as
this terrible realization was thrust upon me, I dried my eyes
deliberately, and calmed my agitated feelings. There will be plenty of
time for grief afterwards, I said to myself, when I am friendless and
alone in the world.
No one had thought of caring for my poor father's spiritual needs in
this awful hour. My step-mother considered her best was done when the
services of two able medical men had been secured, and no one else
wished to make any delicate suggestions while she was assuming the
management. I had arrived therefore in the nick of time, for before
the sun was very high in the heavens on the morning following my
return, my father lay cold and white upon his bed.
All night long, I had watched and prayed with him. Now and then his
feeble voice broke forth in earnest responses, as his dim gaze fell
upon the bronze crucifix I had placed between his fingers, and once
when I had paused to listen to his breathing, he uttered plaintively:
"More, Amey, go on."
How I thanked God for this favor! I, who had prayed so often on bended
knees and with tearful eyes for the ultimate conversion of my father.
When I placed the lighted candle in his dying hand and saw him receive
the last rites of Holy Church, I felt that all the gloom and sorrow of
my heart had been lifted and dispelled in a moment.
When the gray of the early morning crept in through the latticed
window, his eye-lids drooped slowly and shut the things of earth from
his mortal gaze forever.
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